MGKAVED   BY   G.    KRUELL 


MICHAEL   ANGELO- 


MICHAEL  ANGELO 


Dramatic  Itoem 


HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

7 


Michel,  piu  che  mortal,  Angel  divino 

ARIOSTO 

Similamente  operando  all'  artista 
Ch'  a  1'abito,  dell'  arte  e  man  che  trema 

DANTE,  Par.  xiii.,  st.  77 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    AND   COMPANY 

New  York:   11    East  Seventeenth   Street 

IttocrsiDf  press,  CambriDgc 

1884 


n«3.'>vv    U'DTTaYtJ  ^  W 


Copyright,  1882  and  1883, 
By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.  AND  ERNEST  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

All  rights  resented. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge.  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Houghton  &  Co- 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

DEDICATION 5 

PART   FIRST. 

I.    PKOLOGUE  AT  ISCHIA 7 

II.    MONOLOGUE 17 

III.  SAN  SILVESTKO 20 

IV.  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO ,27 

V.      BORGO    DELLE    VERGINE    AT    NAPLES 43 

VI.      VlTTORIA   COLONNA 5(> 

PART   SECOND. 

I.    MONOLOGUE 73 

II.    VITERBO 76 

III.  MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  BENVENUTO  CELLINI 77 

IV.  FRA  SEBASTIANO  DEL  PIOMBO 90 

V.    MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TITIAN:  PALAZZO  BELVEDERE 103 

VI.    PALAZZO  CESARINI 113 

PART  THIRD. 

I.    MONOLOGUE  :  MACELLO  DE'  CORVI 123 

II.    VIGNA  DI  PAPA  GIULIO 125 

III.  BINDO  ALTOVITI 137 

IV.  IN  THE  COLISEUM 142 

V.    BENEVENUTO  AGAIN  :  MACELLO  DE'  CORVI 148 

VI.    URBINO'S  FORTUNE 164 

VII.    THE  OAKS  OF  MONTE  LUCA 168 

VIII.    THE  DEAD  CHRIST 174 

NOTES  ON  THE  ILLUSTRATIONS    ....  181 


849332 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  MICHAEL  AXGELO.     After  a  recent  French 

engraving 
HALF  TITLE    ....  .... 

DEDICATION     .  ....... 

HEAD-PIECE      PART  FIRST       ...... 

PORTRAIT    OF    JULIA    GONZAGA.      From   the   engraving 

"  Saint  Agatha  " 

VlTTORIA    COLONNA    AND    JULIA    GONZAGA.       On  the  Castle 

terrace. 
"  /  will  f/o  with  you  ;  for  I  would  not  lose 

One  hour  of  your  dear  presence  "        .... 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  IN  HIS  STUDIO. 

"  What  is  it  guides  my  hand,  what  thoughts  possess  me, 
That  I  have  drawn  her  face  among  the  angels  " 

VlTTORIA    COLONNA,  MlCHAEL  ANGELO,  AND    OTHERS.       Ill 

the  Chapel  of  San  Silvestro. 

"  If  friends  of  yours,  then  are  they  friends  of  mine. 
Pardon  me,  gentlemen.     But  when  I  entered 
I  saw  but  the  Marchesa  "  . 

CARDINAL  IPPOLITO.     From  a  steel  engraving  of  the  por 
trait  by  Titian        ........ 

DUKE  ALESSANDRO.     From  a  medal  by  Benvenuto  Cellini. 
"  The  Duke,  my  cousin,  the  black  Alessandro, 

Whose  mother  ivas  a  Moorish  slave" 
MICHAEL  ANGELO.     From  Buonasoni's  portrait. 
"  All  art  and  artists  of  the  present  day 

Centre  in  him  " 

CARDINAL  IPPOLITO  AND  FRA  SEBASTIAN  DEL  PIOMBO. 

"  Now  unsheathe  it. 

'Tis  a  Damascus  blade  ;  you  see  the  inscription 
In  Arabic :  La  Allah  ilia  Allah"     . 
JULIA  GONZAGA  AND  VALDESSO. 

tv  This  warrants  me  in  saying 
You  think  you  can  win  heaven  by  compromise, 
And  not  by  verdict "  . 


Frontispiece. 

S.  L.  SMITH       .         .  3 

S.  L.  SMITH       ...         5 
S.  L.  SMITH  7 

MRS.  F.  C.  HOUSTON  .  10 


WALTER  SHIRLAW     ,         .       13 
THOMAS  HOVENDEN   .        .       18 

F.  D.  MILLET  23 

28 


32 


36 


T.  DE  THULSTRUP     .        .       39 


WALTER  SHIRLAW     .         .      51 


Vlll 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


VESUVIUS. 

"  The  dim,  mysterious  sea  in  silence  sleeps  ; 
And  straight  into  the  air  Vesuvius  lifts 

His  plume  of  smoke  " 

ISCHIA.     The  home  of  Vittoria  Colonna      .... 

HEAD.     Considered  by  many  to  be  a  likeness  of  Vittoria 

Colonna.     It  was  drawn  in  black  chalk  by  Michael  An- 


Ross  TURNER 
W.  H.  GIBSON 


HALF  TITLE.     PART  SECOND S.  L.  SMITH 

FLORENCE  ........         F.  B.  SCHELL     . 

"  As  a  youth 
I  walked  with  Ghirlandajo  in  the  gardens 

Of  the  Medici "        V  > Louis  RITTER     . 

CELLINI  AT  THE  SIEGE  OF  ROME. 

"  And  firing  at  him  with  due  aim  and  range, 

I  cut  the  gay  Hidalgo  in  two 'pieces"         .        .        .         T.  DE  THULSTRUP      . 
FRA  SEBASTIAN  DEL  PIOMBO.     From  the  portrait  by  Gior 
gio  Vasari     . 

FRA  SEBASTIAN'S  PORTRAIT  OF  VITTORIA  COLONNA 

"  See  how  hard  the  outline, 
Sharp-cut  and  clear,  not  rounded  into  shadow. 
Yet  that  is  nature "  .        .        .        .        .        .         .         Ross  TURNER     . 

VENICE. 

"  Your  still  lagoons, 

Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea  "  .         .         .         THEODORE  WENDELL  , 

TITIAN.     After  the  etching  by  Angostino  Carracci 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  VISIT  TO  TITIAN'S  STUDIO. 
"And  now,  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 

Of  Danae,  of  which  I  hear  such  praise"  .         .         .         WALTER  SHIRLAW 
GIORGIO  VASARI.     After  an  old  print        ....         ROBERT  LEWIS  . 
JULIA  GONZAGA  AND  MICHAEL  ANGELO  AT  THE  DEATH  OF 
VITTORIA  COLONNA. 

"  Alas  !  yes,  she  is  dead  ! 

Even  death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seems  fair"    .         .         WALTER  SHIRLAW 
HALF  TITLE.    PART  THIRD     .         .         .         .         .         .         S.  L.  SMITH 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  SEAL .         .         .         . 

VENICE  AT  NIGHT .         .         Ross  TURNER     . 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  BINDO  ALTOVITI. 

"  The  same  reason 

TJiat  keeps  you  standing  sentinel  at  your  door  "          .         T.  DE  THULSTRUP 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  TOMASO  DE  CAVALIERI    IN  THE 
COLISEUM. 
"  Oh,  I  am  put  to  shame,  when  I  consider 

Hoiv  mean  our  work  is,  ivhen  compared  with  theirs  "    .         F.  D.  MILLET    . 
BENVENUTO    CELLINI.      From   the    portrait    by   Giorgio 
Vasari 


56 

01 


67 
71 
79 


82 

85 

91 
96 


103 
105 


107 
111 


117 

124 
131 

139 

145 
150 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  ix 

CELLINI  CASTING  THE  STATUE. 

"  And  cast  them  one  by  one  into  the  furnace 

To  liquefy  the  mass"  WALTER  SHIRLAW  .     155 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  HIS  AGED  SERVANT  URBINO. 

"  Take  this  purse, 

Two  thousand  crowns  in  gold" .  .         .         T.  DE  THULSTRUP      ,         .167 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  AND  THE  MONK.     The  Valley  of  Cli- 
tuinnus  below. 

''  Were  it  a  cross 

That  had  been  laid  upon  me,  I  could  bear  it, 

Or  fall  with  It"  ....         F.D.MILLET    .         .         .171 

MICHAEL  ANGELO  BEFORE  HIS  GROUP.  "The  Dead  Christ." 
"  0  Death,  why  is  it  I  cannot  portray 

Thy  form  and  features  ?     Do  1  stand  too  near  thee'.'"       THOMAS  HOVENDEN  .  175 

FlXLS S.  L.  SMITH  17'.) 


THE  ENGRAVINGS    WERE   MADE   BY: 

GEORGE  T.  ANDREW,  K.  C.  ATTWOOD,  VICTOR  BERNSTROM,  W.  B.  CLOSSON,  W.  .1.  DANA, 
FRANK  FRENCH,  J.  S.  HARLEY,  T.  JOHNSON,  F.  JUKNGLING,  JOHN  KARST,  H.  F.  KRAI-SK, 
G.  KRUKLL,  HENRY  MARSH,  WILLIAM  MILLER,  H.  E.  SCHULTZ,  G.  F.  SMITH,  H.  E.  SYL 
VESTER,  and  HENRY  VELTEN. 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE. 


THE  Dramatic  Poem  of  Michael  Angelo  was  written  by  Mr.  Longfellow  mainly  about  ten 
years  before  his  death,  but  was  kept  by  him  for  occasional  revision,  and  printed  after  his  death 
in  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  from  his  final  copy.  It  had  been  his  wish  that  the  poem,  when 
published  as  a  book,  should  be  accompanied  by  illustrations,  and  the  Publishers  have  accordingly 
reserved  it  for  this  form.  In  the  plan  of  its  illustration  they  have  followed  so  far  as  they  could 
the  spirit  in  which  the  poet  composed  it,  making  the  designs  descriptive  of  the  historical  and  bio 
graphical  features  of  the  poem,  for  the  most  part,  and  studying  to  render  them  accurate  in  their 
interpretation  of  the  facts.  They  have  added  a  few  notes  for  the  reader's  convenience,  since  the 
portraits,  which  form  the  chief  subject  of  the  notes,  could  not  be  referred  to  except  by  recourse 
to  a  variety  of  works. 


DRAMATIS  PERSOIS^E. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  CARDINAL  MARCELLO. 

VlTTORIA  COLOKNA.  GlOVANNI  VALDESSO. 

JULIA  GONZAGA.  GIORGIO  VASARI. 

FRA  SEBASTIANO  DEL  PIOMBO.  BINDO  ALTOVITI, 

BENVENUTO  CELLINI.  TOMASO  DE'  CAVALIERI. 

TITIAN.  CLAUDIO  TOLOMMEI. 

POPE  JULIUS  III.  JACOPO  NARDI. 

CARDINAL  IPPOLITO.  URBINO. 

CARDINAL  SALVIATI.  A  MONK. 


MLHAE.ANCiO 


MICHAEL 


NOTHING  that  is  shall  perish  utterly. 
Hut  perish  only  to  revive  again 
In   other  forms,  as  clouds  restore  in  rain 
The  exhalations  of  the  land  and  sea. 

Men  build  their  houses  from  the  masonry 
Of  ruined  tombs  ;   the  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  hearts,  that  long  have  ceased  to  beat,  remain 
To  throb  in  hearts  that  are,  or  are  to  be. 

So  from  old  chronicles,  where  sleep  in  dust 

Names  that  once  filled  the  world  with  trumpet  tones, 
I  build  this  verse  ;   and  flowers  of  song  have  thrust 

Their  roots  among  the  loose  disjointed  stones, 
Which  to  this  end  I  fashion  as  I  must. 
Quickened  are  they  that  touch  the   Prophet's  bones. 


$SB 


a  MICHAEL  ANCELO 


PART  FIRST 


I. 

PROLOGUE    AT    ISCIITA. 
The  Castle  Terrace.     VITTOKIA  COLONXA,  and  JULIA  GOXZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 

Will  you  then  leave  me,  Julia,  and  so  soon, 
To  pace  alone  this  terrace  like  a  ghost  ? 


JULIA. 


To-morrow,  dearest. 


VITTORIA. 

Do  not  say  to-morrow. 

A  whole  month  of  to-morrows  were  too  soon. 
You  must  not  go.     You  are  a  part  of  me. 


JULIA. 
I  must  return  to  Fondi. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

VITTOEIA. 

The  old  castle 

Needs  not  your  presence.     No  one  waits  for  you. 
Stay  one  day  longer  with  me.     They  who  go 
Feel  not  the  pain  of  parting ;  it  is  they 
Who  stay  behind  that  suffer.     I  was  thinking 
But  yesterday  how  like  and  how  unlike 
Have  been,  and  are,  our  destinies.     Your  husband, 
The  good  Yespasian,  an  old  man,  who  seemed 
A  father  to  you  rather  than  a  husband, 
Died  in  your  arms ;  but  mine,  in  all  the  flower 
And  promise  of  his  youth,  was  taken  from  me 
As  by  a  rushing  wind.     The  breath  of  battle 
Breathed  on  him,  and  I  saw  his  face  no  more, 
Save  as  in  dreams  it  haunts  me.     As  our  love 
Was  for  these  men,  so  is  our  sorrow  for  them. 
Yours  a  child's  sorrow,  smiling  through  its  tears ; 
But  mine  the  grief  of  an  impassioned  woman, 
Who  drank  her  life  up  in  one  draught  of  love. 

JULIA. 

Behold  this  locket.     This  is  the  white  hair 
Of  my  Yespasian.     This  the  flower-of-love, 
The  amaranth,  and  beneath  it  the  device, 
Non  moritura.     Thus  my  heart  remains 
True  to  his  memory ;  and  the  ancient  castle, 
Where  we  have  lived  together,  where  he  died, 
Is  dear  to  me  as  Ischia  is  to  you. 

VITTORIA. 

I  did  not  mean  to  chide  you. 

JULIA. 

Let  your  heart 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Find,  if  it  can,  some  poor  apology 

For  one  who  is  too  young,  and  feels  too  keenly 

The  joy  of  life,  to  give  up  all  her  days 

To  sorrow  for  the  dead.     While  I*  am  true 

To  the  remembrance  of  the  man  I  loved 

And  mourn  for  still,  I  do  not  make  a  show 

Of  all  the  grief  I  feel,  nor  live  secluded 

And,  like  Veronica  da  Gambara, 

Drape  my  whole  house  in  mourning,  and  drive  forth 

In  coach  of  sable  drawn  by  sable  horses, 

As  if  I  were  a  corpse.     Ah,  one  to-day 

Is  worth  for  me  a  thousand  yesterdays. 

VITTORIA. 

Dear  Julia  !     Friendship  has  its  jealousies 

As  well  as  love.     Who  waits  for  you  at  Fondi  ? 

JULIA. 

A  friend  of  mine  and  yours ;  a  friend  and  friar. 
You  have  at  Naples  your  Fra  Bernardino ; 
And  I  at  Fondi  have  my  Fra  Bastiano, 
The  famous  artist,  who  has  come  from  Rome 
To  paint  my. portrait.     That  is  not  a  sin. 

VITTORIA. 

Only  a  vanity. 

JULIA. 

He  painted  yours. 

VITTORIA. 

Do  not  call  up  to  me  those  days  departed, 
When  I  was  young,  and  all  was  bright  about  me, 
And  the  vicissitudes  of  life  were  things 
But  to  be  read  of  in  old  histories, 


10  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Though  as  pertaining  unto  me  or  mine 
Impossible.     Ah,  then  I  dreamed  your  dreams, 
And  now,  grown  older,  I  look  back  and  see 
They  were  illusions. 

JULIA. 

Yet  without  illusions 

What  would  our  lives  become,  what  we  ourselves  ? 
Dreams  or  illusions,  call  them  what  you  will, 
They  lift  us  from  the  commonplace  of  life 
To  better  things. 

VITTORIA. 

Are  there  no  brighter  dreams, 
No  higher  aspirations,  than  the  wish 
To  please  and  to  be  pleased  ? 

JULIA. 

For  you  there  are  : 
I  am  no  saint ;  I  feel  the  world  we  live  in 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  11 

Comes  before  that  which  is  to  he  hereafter, 
And  must  he  dealt  with  first. 


VITTOR1A. 

But  in  what  way  ? 

JULIA. 

Let  the  soft  wind  that  wafts  to  us  the  odor 
Of  orange  blossoms,  let  the  laughing  sea 
And  the  bright  sunshine  bathing  all  the  world, 
Answer  the  question. 

VITTORIA. 

And  for  whom  is  meant 
This  portrait  that  you  speak  of  ? 

JULIA. 

For  my  friend 
The  Cardinal  Ippolito. 

VITTORIA. 

For  him  ? 

JULIA. 

Yes,  for  Ippolito  the  Magnificent. 

'T  is  always  flattering  to  a  woman's  pride 

To  be  admired  by  one  whom  all  admire. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah,  Julia,  she  that  makes  herself  a  dove 
Is  eaten  by  the  hawk.     Be  on  your  guard. 
He  is  a  Cardinal  ;  and  his  adoration 
Should  be  elsewhere  directed. 


12  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

You  forget 

The  horror  of  that  night,  when  Barbarossa, 
The  Moorish  corsair,  landed  on  our  coast 
To  seize  me  for  the  Sultan  Soliman  ; 
How  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  all  were  sleeping, 
He  scaled  the  castle  wall ;  how  I  escaped, 
And  in  my  night-dress,  mounting  a  swift  steed, 
Fled  to  the  mountains,  and  took  refuge  there 
Among  the  brigands.     Then  of  all  my  friends 
The  Cardinal  Ippolito  was  first 
To  come  with  his  retainers  to  my  rescue. 
Could  I  refuse  the  only  boon  he  asked 
At  such  a  time,  my  portrait  ? 

VJTTORIA. 

I  have  heard 

Strange  stories  of  the  splendors  of  his  palace, 
And  how,  apparelled  like  a  Spanish  Prince, 
He  rides  through  Rome  Avith  a  long  retinue 
Of  Ethiopians  and  Numidians 
And  Turks  and  Tartars,  in  fantastic  dresses, 
Making  a  gallant  show.     Is  this  the  way 
A  Cardinal  should  live  ? 

JULIA. 

He  is  so  young  ; 

Hardly  of  age,  or  little  more  than  that ; 
Beautiful,  generous,  fond  of  arts  and  letters, 
A  poet,  a  musician,  and  a  scholar ; 
Master  of  many  languages,  and  a  player 
On  many  instruments.     In  Rome,  his  palace 
Is  the  asylum  of  all  men  distinguished 
In  art  or  science,  and  all  Florentines 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  15 

Escaping  from  the  tyranny  of  his  cousin, 
Duke  Alcssandro. 


VITTORIA. 

I  have  seen  his  portrait, 
Painted  by  Titian.     You  have  painted  it 
In  brighter  colors. 

JULIA. 

And  my  Cardinal, 

At  Itri,  in  the  courtyard  of  his  palace, 
Keeps  a  tame  lion  ! 

VITTORIA. 

And  so  counterfeits 
St.  Mark,  the  Evangelist ! 

JULIA. 

Ah,  your  tame  lion 
Is  Michael  Angelo. 

VITTORIA. 

You  speak  a  name 

That  always  thrills  me  with  a  noble  sound, 
As  of  a  trumpet  !     Michael  Angelo  ! 
A  lion  all  men  fear  and  none  can  tame  ; 
A  man  that  all  men  honor,  and  the  model 
That  all  should  follow ;  one  who  works  and  prays, 
For  work  is  prayer,  and  consecrates  his  life 
To  the  sublime  ideal  of  his  art, 
Till  art  and  life  are  one  ;  a  man  who  holds 
Such  place  in  all  men's  thoughts,  that  when  they  speak 
Of  great  things  done,  or  to  be  done,  his  name 
Is  ever  on  their  lips. 


16  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

You  too  can  paint 

The  portrait  of  your  hero,  and  in  colors 
Brighter  than  Titian's  ;  I  might  warn  you  also 
Against  the  dangers  that  beset  your  path ; 
But  I  forbear. 

VITTORIA. 

If  I  were  made  of  marble, 
Of  Fior  di  Persico  or  Pavonazzo, 
He  might  admire  me  :  being  but  flesh  and  blood, 
I  am  no  more  to  him  than  other  women ; 
That  is,  am  nothing. 

JULIA. 

Does  he  ride  through  Rome 
Upon  his  little  mule,  as  he  was  wont, 
With  his  slouched  hat,  and  boots -of  Cordovan, 
As  when  I  saw  him  last  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Pray  do  not  jest. 

I  cannot  couple  with  his  noble  name 
A  trivial  word  !     Look,  how  the  setting  sun 
Lights  up  Castel-a-mare  and  Sorrento, 
And  changes  Capri  to  a  purple  cloud  ! 
And  there  Vesuvius  with  its  plume  of  smoke, 
And  the  great  city  stretched  upon  the  shore 
As  in  a  dream  ! 

JULIA. 

Parthenope  the  Siren ! 

.       VITTORIA. 

And  yon  long  line  of  lights,  those  sun-lit  windows 
Blaze  like  the  torches  carried  in  procession 
To  do  her  honor  !     It  is  beautiful ! 


MICHAEL   ANGEL 0.  17 

JULIA. 

I  have  no  heart  to  feel  the  beauty  of  it ! 
My  feet  are  weary,  pacing  up  and  clown 
These  level  flags,  and  wearier  still  my  thoughts 
Treading  the  broken  pavement  of  the  Past. 
It  is  too  sad.     I  will  go  in  and  rest, 
And  make  me  ready  for  to-morrow's  journey. 

VITTORIA. 

i  will  go  with  you ;  for  I  would  not  lose 

One  hour  of  your  dear  presence.     'T  is  enough 

Only  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  you. 

I  need  not  speak  to  you,  nor  hear  you  speak  ; 

If  I  but  see  you,  I  am  satisfied  [They  go  in. 


II. 

MONOLOGUE. 
MICHAEL  AXGELO'S  Studio.     He  is  at  work  on  the  cartoon  of  the  Last  Judgment. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals 
Come  here  to  lay  this  heavy  task  upon  me  ? 
Were  not  the  paintings  on  the  Sistine  ceiling 
Enough  for  them  ?     They  saw  the  Hebrew  leader 
Waiting,  and  clutching  his  tempestuous  beard, 
But  heeded  not.     The  bones  of  Julius 
Shook  in  their  sepulchre.     I  heard  the  sound  ; 
They  only  heard  the  sound  of  their  own  voices. 

Are  there  no  other  artists  here  in  Rome 
To  do  this  work,  that  they  must  needs  seek  me  ? 
Fra  Bastian,  my  Fra  Bastian,  might  have  done  it ; 
But  he  is  lost  to  art.     The  Papal  Seals, 


18  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Like  leaden  weights  upon  a  dead  man's  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  ;  and  so  the  burden  falls 

On  Michael  Angelo,  Chief  Architect 

And  Painter  of  the  Apostolic  Palace. 

That  is  the  title  they  cajole  me  with, 

To  make  me  do  their  work  and  leave  my  own ; 

But  having  once  begun,  I  turn  not  back. 

Blow,  ye  bright  angels,  on  your  golden  trumpets 

To  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  and  wake 

The  dead  to  judgment !     Ye  recording  angels, 

Open  your  books  and  read !     Ye  dead,  awake  ! 

Rise  from  your  graves,  drowsy  and  drugged  with  death, 

As  men  who  suddenly  aroused  from  sleep 

Look  round  amazed,  and  know  not  where  they  are  ! 

In  happy  hours,  when  the  imagination 
Wakes  like  a  wind  at  midnight,  and  the  soul 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  19 

Trembles  in  all  its  leaves,  it  is  a  joy 

To  be  uplifted  on  its  wings,  and  listen 

To  the  prophetic  voices  in  the  air 

That  call  us  onward.     Then  the  work  we  do 

Is  a  delight,  and  the  obedient  hand 

Never  grows  weary.     But  how  different  is  it 

In  the  disconsolate,  discouraged  hours, 

When  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world  appears 

As  trivial  as  the  gossip  of  a  nurse 

In  a  sick-room,  and  all  our  work  seems  useless. 

What  is  it  guides  my  hand,  what  thoughts  possess  me, 

That  I  have  drawn  her  face  among  the  angels, 

Where  she  will  be  hereafter  ?     O  sweet  dreams, 

That  through  the  vacant  chambers  of  my  heart 

Walk  in  the  silence,  as  familiar  phantoms 

Frequent  an  ancient  house,  what  will  ye  Avith  me  ? 

T  is  said  that  Emperors  write  their  names  in  green 

When  under  age,  but  when  of  age  in  purple. 

So  Love,  the  greatest  Emperor  of  them  all, 

Writes  his  in  green  at  first,  but  afterwards 

In  the  imperial  purple  of  our  blood. 

First  love  or  last  love,  —  which  of  these  two  passions 

Is  more  omnipotent  ?     Which  is  more  fair, 

The  star  of  morning  or  the  evening  star  ? 

The  sunrise  or  the  sunset  of  the  heart  ? 

The  hour  when  we  look  forth  to  the  unknown, 

And  the  advancing  day  consumes  the  shadows, 

Or  that  when  all  the  landscape  of  our  lives 

Lies  stretched  behind  us,  and  familiar  places 

Gleam  in  the  distance,  and  sweet  memories 

Rise  like  a  tender  haze,  and  magnify 

The  objects  we  behold,  that  soon  must  vanish  ? 


20  MICHAEL   ANGEL  0. 

What  matters  it  to  me,  whose  countenance 

Is  like  Laocoon's,  full  of  pain  ;  whose  forehead 

Is  a  ploughed  harvest-field,  where  threescore  years 

Have  sown  in  sorrow  and  have  reaped  in  anguish ; 

To  me,  the  artisan,  to  whom  all  women 

Have  been  as  if  they  were  not,  or  at  most 

A  sudden  rush  of  pigeons  in  the  air, 

A  flutter  of  wings,  a  sound,  and  then  a  silence  ? 

I  am  too  old  for  love  ;  I  am  too  old 

To  flatter  and  delude  myself  wi'th  visions 

Of  never-ending  friendship  with  fair  women, 

Imaginations,  fantasies,  illusions, 

In  which  the  things  that  cannot  be  take  shape, 

And  seem  to  be,  and  for  the  moment  are.      [Convent  bells  ring. 

Distant  and  near  and  low  and  loud  the  bells, 
Dominican,  Benedictine,  and  Franciscan, 
Jangle  and  wrangle  in  their  airy  towers, 
Discordant  as  the  brotherhoods  themselves 
In  their  dim  cloisters.     The  descending  sun 
Seems  to  caress  the  city  that  he  loves, 
And  crowns  it  with  the  aureole  of  a  saint. 
I  will  go  forth  and  breathe  the  air  a  while. 


III. 


SAN   SILVESTRO. 

A  Chapel  in  the  Church  of  San  Silvestro  on  Monte  Cavallo. 
VITTORIA  COLONNA,  CLAUDio  ToLOMMEi,  and  others. 

VITTORIA. 

Here  let  us  rest  awhile,  until  the  crowd 
Has  left  the  church.     I  have  already  sent 
For  Michael  Angelo  to  join  us  here. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  21 

MESSER    CLA.UDIO. 

After  Fra  Bernardino's  wise  discourse 
On  the  Pauline  Epistles,  certainly 
Some  words  of  Michael  Angelo  on  Art 
Were  not  amiss,  to  bring  us  back  to  earth. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO,  at  tll(J 

How  like  a  Saint  or  Goddess  she  appears  ; 
Diana  or  Madonna,  which  I  know  not  ! 
In  attitude  and  aspect  formed  to  be 
At  once  the  artist's  worship  and  despair  ! 

VITTORIA. 

Welcome,  Maestro.     We  were  waiting  for  you. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

I  met  your  messenger  upon  the  way, 
And  hastened  hither. 

VITTORIA. 

It  is  kind  of  you 

To  come  to  us,  Avho  linger  here  like  gossips 
Wasting  the  afternoon  in  idle  talk. 
These  are  all  friends  of  mine  and  friends  of  yours. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

If  friends  of  yours,  then  are  they  friends  of  mine 
Pardon  me,  gentlemen.     But  when  I  entered 
I  saw  but  the  Marchesa. 

VITTORIA. 

Take  this  seat 

Between  me  and  Ser  Claudio  Tolommci, 
Who  still  maintains  that  our  Italian  tongue 


22  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Should  be  called  Tuscan.     But  for  that  offence 
We  will  not  quarrel  with  him. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Eccellenza  - 

VITTOEIA. 

Ser  Claudio  has  banished  Eccellenza 

And  all  such  titles  from  the  Tuscan  tongue. 

MESSEK    CLAUDIO. 

'T  is  the  abuse  of  them  and  not  the  use 
I  deprecate. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

The  use  or  the  abuse, 
It  matters  not.     Let  them  all  go  together, 
As  empty  phrases  and  frivolities, 
And  common  as  gold-lace  upon  the  collar 
Of  an  obsequious  lackey. 

VITTORIA. 

That  may  be, 

But  something  of  politeness  would  go  with  them  ; 
We  should  lose  something  of  the  stately  manners 
Of  the  old  school. 

MESSER    CLAUDIO. 

Undoubtedly. 

VITTORIA. 

But  that 

Is  not  what  occupies  my  thoughts  at  present, 
Nor  why  I  sent  for  you,  Messer  Michele. 
It  was  to  counsel  me.     His  Holiness 
Has  granted  me  permission,  long  desired, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  25 

To  build  a  convent  in  this  neighborhood, 

Where  the  old  tower  is  standing,  from  whose  top 

Nero  looked  down  upon  the  burning  eity. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

It  is  an  inspiration  ! 

V1TTORIA. 

I  am  doubtful 

How  I  shall  build  ;  how  large  to  make  the  convent, 
And  which  way  fronting. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Ah,  to  build,  to  build  ! 
That  is  the  noblest  art  of  all  the  arts. 
Painting  and  sculpture  are  but  images, 
Are  merely  shadows  cast  by  outward  things 
On  stone  or  canvas,  having  in  themselves 
No  separate  existence.     Architecture, 
Existing  in  itself,  and  not  in  seeming 
A  something  it  is  not,  surpasses  them 
As  substance  shadow.     Long,  long  years  ago, 
Standing  one  morning  near  the  Baths  of  Titus, 
I  saw  the  statue  of  Laocoon 
Rise  from  its  grave  of  centuries,  like  a  ghost 
Writhing  in  pain ;  and  as  it  tore  away 
The  knotted  serpents  from  its  limbs,  I  heard, 
Or  seemed  to  hear,  the  cry  of  agony 
From  its  white,  parted  lips.     And  still  I  marvel 
At  the  three  Rhodian  artists,  by  whose  hands 
This  miracle  was  wrought.     Yet  he  beholds 
Far  nobler  works  who  looks  upon  the  ruins 
Of  temples  in  the  Forum  here  in  Rome. 
If  God  should  give  me  power  in  my  old  age 


26  MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

To  build  for  Him  a  temple  half  as  grand 
As  those  were  in  their  glory,  I  should  count 
My  age  more  excellent  than  youth  itself, 
And  all  that  I  have  hitherto  accomplished 
As  only  vanity. 

VITTORIA. 

I  understand  you. 

Art  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  must  be  used 
Unto  His  glory.     That  in  art  is  highest 
Which  aims  at  this.     When  St.  Hilarion  blessed 
The  horses  of  Italicus,  they  won 
The  race  at  Gaza,  for  his  benediction 
O'erpowered  all  magic ;  and  the  people  shouted 
That  Christ  had  conquered  Marnas.      So  that  art 
Which  bears  the  consecration  and  the  seal 
Of  holiness  upon  it  will  prevail 
Over  all  others.     Those  few  words  of  yours 
Inspire  me  with  new  confidence  to  build. 
What  think  you  ?     The  old  walls  might  serve,  perhaps, 
Some  purpose  still.     The  tower  can  hold  the  bells. 

MICHAEL    A1STGELO. 

If  strong  enough. 

VITTORIA. 

If  not,  it  can  be  strengthened. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

I  see  no  bar  nor  drawback  to  this  building, 

And  on  our  homeward  way,  if  it  shall  please  you, 

We  may  together  view  the  site. 

VITTORIA. 

I  thank  you. 
I  did  not  venture  to  request  so  much. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  27 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Let  us  now  go  to  the  old  walls  you  spake  of, 
Vossignoria  — 

VITTORIA. 

What,  again,  Maestro  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Pardon  me,  Messer  Claudio,  if  once  more 
I  use  the  ancient  courtesies  of  speech. 
I  am  too  old  to  change. 


IV. 

CARDINAL    IPPOLITO. 

A  richly  furnished  apartment  hi  the  Palace  of  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO.     Niyht. 
JACOPO  XARDI,  an  old  man,  alone. 

NARDI. 

I  am  bewildered.     These  Numidian  slaves, 

In  strange  attire  ;  these  endless  antechambers ; 

This  lighted  hull,  with  all  its  golden  splendors, 

Pictures,  and  statues  !     Can  this  be  the  dwelling 

Of  a  disciple  of  that  lowly  Man 

Who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head  ?     These  statues 

Are  not  of  Saints ;  nor  is  this  a  Madonna, 

This  lovely  face,  that  with  such  tender  eyes 

Looks  down  upon  me  from  the  painted  canvas. 

My  heart  begins  to  fail  me.     What  can  he 

Who  lives  in  boundless  luxury  at  Rome 

Care  for  the  imperilled  liberties  of  Florence, 

Her  people,  her  Republic  ?     Ah,  the  rich 

Feel  not  the  pangs  of  banishment.     All  doors 

Are  open  to  them,  and  all  hands  extended. 

The  poor  alone  are  outcasts ;  they  who  risked 


28 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


All  they  possessed  for  liberty,  and  lost ; 

And  wander  through  the  world  without  a  friend, 

Sick,  comfortless,  distressed,  unknown,  uncared  for, 

Enter  CARDINAL  IPPOLITO,  in  Spanish  cloak  and  slouched  hat. 
IPPOLITO. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me  that  I  have  kept  you 
Waiting  so  long  alone. 


The  Cardinal. 


And  you  ? 


NARDI. 

I  wait  to  see 

IPPOLITO. 

I  am  the  Cardinal ; 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  20 

NAKDJ. 

Jacopo  Nurdi. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  arc  welcome. 

I  was  expecting  you.     Philippo  Strozzi 
Had  told  me  of  your  coming. 

NARDI. 

'T  was  his  son 
That  brought  me  to  your  door. 

IPPOLITO. 

Pray  you,  be  seated. 

You  seem  astonished  at  the  garb  I  wear, 
But  at  my  time  of  life,  and  with  my  habits, 
The  petticoats  of  a  Cardinal  would  be  - 
Troublesome  ;  I  could  neither  ride  nor  walk, 
Nor  do  a  thousand  things,  if  I  were  dressed 
Like  an  old  dowager.     It  were  putting  wine 
Young  as  the  young  Astyanax  into  goblets 
As  old  as  Priam. 

NARDI. 

Oh,  your  Eminence 
Knows  best  what  you  should  wear. 

IPPOLITO. 

Dear  Messer  Nardi, 

You  are  no  stranger  to  me.     I  have  read 
Your  excellent  translation  of  the  books 
Of  Titus  Livius,  the  historian 
Of  Rome,  and  model  of  all  historians 
That  shall  come  after  him.     It  does  you  honor ; 
But  greater  honor  still  the  love  you  bear 


30  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

To  Florence,  our  dear  country,  and  whose  annals 
I  hope  your  hand  will  write,  in  happier  days 
Than  we  now  see. 

NARDI. 

Your  Eminence  will  pardon 
The  lateness  of  the  hour. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  hours  I  count  not 
As  a  sun-dial ;  but  am  like  a  clock, 
That  tells  the  time  as  well  by  night  as  day. 
So,  no  excuse.     I  know  what  brings  you  here. 
You  come  to  speak  of  Florence. 

NARDI. 

And  her  woes. 

IPPOLITO. 

The  Duke,  my  cousin,  the  black  Alessandro, 
Whose  mother  was  a  Moorish  slave,  that  fed 
The  sheep  upon  Lorenzo's  farm,  still  lives 
And  reigns. 

NARDI. 

Alas,  that  such  a  scourge 
Should  fall  on  such  a  city  ! 

IPPOLITO. 

When  he  dies, 

The  Wild  Boar  in  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo, 
The  beast  obscene,  should  be  the  monument 
Of  this  bad  man. 

NARDI. 

He  walks  the  streets  at  night 
With  revellers,  insulting  honest  men. 
No  house  is  sacred  from  his  lusts.     The  convents 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  31 

Arc  turned  by  him  to  brothels,  and  the  honor 

Of  women  and  all  ancient  pious  customs 

Are  quite  forgotten  now.     The  offices 

Of  the  Priori  and  Gonfalonier! 

Have  been  abolished.     All  the  magistrates 

Are  now  his  creatures.     liberty  is  dead. 

The  very  memory  of  all  honest  living 

Is  wiped  away,  and  even  our  Tuscan  tongue 

Corrupted  to  a  Lombard  dialect. 

1PPOLITO. 

And  worst  of  all  his  impious  hand  has  broken 
The  Martinella,  —  our  great  battle  bell, 
That,  sounding  through  three  centuries,  has  led 
The  Florentines  to  victory,  —  lest  its  voice 
Should  waken  in  their  souls  some  memory 
Of  far-off  times  of  glory. 

NARDI. 

What  a  change 

Ten  little  years  have  made !     We  all  remember 
Those  better  days,  when  Niccola  Capponi, 
The  Gonfaloniere,  from  the  windows 
Of  the  Old  Palace,  with  the  blast  of  trumpets, 
Proclaimed  to  the  inhabitants  that  Christ 
Was  chosen  King  of  Florence ;  and  already 
Christ  is  dethroned,  and  slain,  and  in  his  stead 
Reigns  Lucifer  !     Alas,  alas,  for  Florence  ! 

IPPOL1TO. 

Lilies  with  lilies,  said  Savonarola  ; 
Florence  and  France  !     But  I  say  Florence  only, 
Or  only  with  the  Emperor's  hand  to  help  us 
In  sweeping  out  the  rubbish. 


32 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


NARDI. 

Little  hope 

Of  help  is  there  from  him.  He  has  betrothed 
His  daughter  Margaret  to  this  shameless  Duke. 
What  hope  have  we  from  such  an  Emperor  ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Baccio  Valori  and  Philippo  Strozzi, 

Once  the  Duke's  friends  and  intimates,  are  with  us, 

And  Cardinals  Salvati  and  Ridolfi. 

We  shall  soon  see,  then,  as  Valori  says, 

Whether  the  Duke  can  best  spare  honest  men, 

Or  honest  men  the  Duke. 

NAEDI. 

We  have  determined 
To  send  ambassadors  to  Spain,  and  lay 
Our  griefs  before  the  Emperor,  though  I  fear 
More  than  I  hope. 


IPPOLITO. 


The  Emperor  is  busy 
With  this  new  war  against  the  Algerines, 
And  has  no  time  to  listen  to  complaints 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  33 

From  our  ambassadors ;  nor  will  I  trust  them, 
But  go  myself.     All  is  in  readiness 
For  my  departure,  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  shall  go  down  to  Itri,  where  I  meet 
Dante  da  Castiglione  and  some  others, 
Republicans  and  fugitives  from  Florence, 
And  then  take  ship  at  Gaeta,  and  go 
To  join  the  Emperor  in  his  new  crusade 
Against  the  Turk.     I  shall  have  time  enough 
And  opportunity  to  plead  our  cause. 

NARDI,  rising. 

It  is  an  inspiration,  and  I  hail  it 
As  of  good  omen.     May  the  power  that  sends  it 
Bless  our  beloved  country,  and  restore 
Its  banished  citizens.     The  soul  of  Florence 
Is  now  outside  its  gates.     What  lies  within 
Is  but  a  corpse,  corrupted  and  corrupting. 
Heaven  help  us  all.     I  will  not  tarry  longer, 
For  you  have  need  of  rest.     Good-night. 

IPPOLITO. 

Good-night ! 

Enter  FRA  SEBASTIANO  ;  Turkish  Attendants. 
IPPOLITO. 

Fra  Bastiano,  how  your  portly  presence 
Contrasts  with  that  of  the  spare  Florentine 
Who  has  just  left  me  ! 

FRA    SEBASTIAXO. 

As  we  passed  each  other, 
I  saw  that  he  was  weeping. 

3 


34  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

IPPOLITO. 

Poor  old  man  ! 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Who  is  he  ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Jacopo  Nardi.     A  brave  soul ; 
One  of  the  Fuorusciti,  and  the  best 
And  noblest  of  them  all ;  but  he  has  made  me 
Sad  with  his  sadness.     As  I  look  on  you 
My  heart  grows  lighter.     I  behold  a  man 
Who  lives  in  an  ideal  world,  apart 
From  all  the  rude  collisions  of  our  life, 
In  a  calm  atmosphere. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Your  Eminence 

Is  surely  jesting.     If  you  knew  the  life 
Of  artists  as  I  know  it,  you  might  think 
Far  otherwise. 

IPPOLITO. 

But  wherefore  should  I  jest  ? 
The  world  of  art  is  an  ideal  world,  — 
The  world  I  love,  and  that  I  fain  would  live  in  ; 
So  speak  to  me  of  artists  and  of  art, 
Of  all  the  painters,  sculptors,  and  musicians 
That  now  illustrate  Rome. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Of  the  musicians, 

I  know  but  Goudimel,  the  brave  maestro 
And  chapel-master  of  his  Holiness, 
Who  trains  the  Papal  choir. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  35 

IPPOLITO. 

In  church  this  morning, 
I  listened  to  a  mass  of  Goudimel, 
Divinely  chanted.     In  the  Incarnatus, 
In  lieu  of  Latin  words,  the  tenor  sang 
With  infinite  tenderness,  in  plain  Italian, 
A  Neapolitan  love-song. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

You  amaze  me. 
Was  it  a  wanton  song  ? 

IPPOLITO. 

Not  a  divine  one. 

I  am  not  over-scrupulous,  as  you  know, 
In  word  or  deed,  yet  such  a  song  as  that, 
Sung  by  the  tenor  of  the  Papal  choir, 
And  in  a  Papal  mass,  seemed  out  of  place  ; 
There  's  something  wrong  in  it. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

There  's  something  wrong 
In  everything.     We  cannot  make  the  world 
Go  right.     T  is  not  my  business  to  reform 
The  Papal  choir. 

IPPOLITO. 

Nor  mine,  thank  Heaven ! 
Then  tell  me  of  the  artists. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Naming  one 

I  name  them  all ;  for  there  is  only  one  : 
His  name  is  Mcsscr  Michael  Angelo. 


36  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


All  art  and  artists  of  the  present  day 
Centre  in  him. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  count  yourself  as  nothing  ? 

FEA    SEBASTIANO. 

Or  less  than  nothing,  since  I  am  at  best 
Only  a  portrait -painter  ;  one  who  draws 
With  greater  or  less  skill,  as  best  he  may, 
The  features  of  a  face. 

IPPOLITO. 

And  you  have  had 

The  honor,  nay,  the  glory,  of  portraying 
Julia  Gonzaga !     Do  you  count  as  nothing 
A  privilege  like  that  ?     See  there  the  portrait 
Rebuking  you  with  its  divine  expression. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  37 

Are  you  not  penitent  ?     He  whose  skilful  hand 
Painted  that  lovely  picture  has  not  right 
To  vilipend  the  art  of  portrait-painting. 
But  what  of  Michael  Angelo  ? 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

But  lately, 

Strolling  together  down  the  crowded  Corso, 
We  stopped,  well  pleased,  to  see  your  Eminence 
Pass  on  an  Arab  steed,  a  noble  creature, 
Which  Michael  Angelo,  who  is  a  lover 
Of  all  things  beautiful,  especially 
When  they  are  Arab  horses,  much  admired, 
And  could  not  praise  enough. 

IPPOLITO,  to  an  attendant. 

Hassan,  to-morrow, 

When  I  am  gone,  but  not  till  I  am  gone,  — 
Be  careful  about  that,  —  take  Barbarossa 
To  Messer  Michael  Angelo,  the  sculptor, 
Who  lives  there  at  Macello  dei  Corvi, 
Near  to  the  Capitol ;  and  take  besides 
Some  ten  mule-loads  of  provender,  and  say 
Your  master  sends  them  to  him  as  a  present. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

A  princely  gift.     Though  Michael  Angelo 
Refuses  presents  from  his  Holiness, 
Yours  he  will  not  refuse. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  think  him  like 

Thymoetes,  who  received  the  wooden  horse 
Into  the  walls  of  Troy.     That  book  of  Virgil 


38  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Have  I  translated  in  Italian  verse, 

And  shall,  some  day,  when  we  have  leisure  for  it, 

Be  pleased  to  read  you.     When  I  speak  of  Troy 

I  am  reminded  of  another  town 

And  of  a  lovelier  Helen,  our  dear  Countess 

Julia  Gonzaga.     You  remember,  surely, 

The  adventure  with  the  corsair  Barbarossa, 

And  all  that  followed  ? 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

A  most  strange  adventure  ; 
A  tale  as  marvellous  and  full  of  wonder 
As  any  in  Boccaccio  or  Sacchetti ; 
Almost  incredible ! 

IPPOLITO. 

Were  I  a  painter 

I  should  not  want  a  better  theme  than  that : 
The  lovely  lady  fleeing  through  the  night 
In  wild  disorder  ;  and  the  brigands'  camp 
With  the  red  fire -light  on  their  swarthy  faces. 
Could  you  not  paint  it  for  me  ? 

FEA    SEBASTIAKO. 

No,  not  I. 
It  is  not  in  my  line. 

IPPOLITO. 

Then  you  shall  paint 

The  portrait  of  the  corsair,  when  we  bring  him 
A  prisoner  chained  to  Naples  ;  for  I  feel 
Something  like  admiration  for  a  man 
Who  dared  this  strange  adventure. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  41 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  do  it. 
But  catch  the  corsair  first. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  may  begin 

To-morrow  with  the  sword.     Hassan,  come  hither  ; 
Bring  me  the  Turkish  scimitar  that  hangs 
Beneath  the  picture  yonder.     Now  unsheathe  it. 
T  is  a  Damascus  blade  ;  you  see  the  inscription 
In  Arabic  :  La  Allah  ilia  Allah,  — 
There  is  no  God  but  God. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

How  beautiful 

In  fashion  and  in  finish  !     It  is  perfect. 
The  Arsenal  of  Venice  cannot  boast 
A  finer  sword. 

IPPOLITO. 
You  like  it  ?     It  is  yours. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

You  do  not  mean  it. 

IPPOLITO. 

I  am  not  a  Spaniard, 

To  say  that  it  is  yours  and  not  to  mean  it. 
I  have  at  Itri  a  whole  armory 

Full  of  such  weapons.     When  you  paint  the  portrait 
Of  Barbarossa,  it  will  be  of  use. 
You  have  not  been  rewarded  as  you  should  be 
For  painting  the  Gonzaga.     Throw  this  bauble 
Into  the  scale,  and  make  the  balance  equal. 


42  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Till  then  suspend  it  in  your  studio ; 
You  artists  like  such  trifles. 


FEA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  keep  it 
In  memory  of  the  donor.     Many  thanks. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra  Bastian,  I  am  growing  tired  of  Rome, 

The  old  dead  city,  with  the  old  dead  people  ; 

Priests  everywhere,  like  shadows  on  a  wall, 

And  morning,  noon,  and  night  the  ceaseless  sound 

Of  convent  bells.     I  must  be  gone  from  here  ; 

Though  Ovid  somewhere  says  that  Rome  is  worthy 

To  be  the  dwelling-place  of  all  the  Gods, 

I  must  be  gone  from  here.     To-morrow  morning 

I  start  for  Itri,  and  go  thence  by  sea 

To  join  the  Emperor,  who  is  making  war 

Upon  the  Algerines  ;  perhaps  to  sink 

Some  Turkish  galleys,  and  bring  back  in  chains 

The  famous  corsair.     Thus  would  I  avenge 

The  beautiful  Gonzaga. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

An  achievement 

Worthy  of  Charlemagne,  or  of  Orlando. 
Berni  and  Ariosto  both  shall  add 
A  canto  to  their  poems,  and  describe  you 
As  Furioso  and  Innamorato. 
Now  I  must  say  good-night. 

IPPOLITO. 

You  must  not  go ; 
First  you  shall  sup  with  me.     My  seneschal, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  43 

Giovan  Andrea  dal  Borgo  a  San  Sepolcro,  — 

I  like  to  give  the  whole  sonorous  name, 

It  sounds  so  like  a  verse  of  the  ^Eneid,  — 

Has  brought  me  eels  fresh  from  the  Lake  of  Fondi, 

And  Lucrine  oysters  cradled  in  their  shells  : 

These,  with  red  Fondi  wine,  the  Caocubun 

That  Horace  speaks  of,  under  a  hundred  keys 

Kept  safe,  until  the  heir  of  Posthumus 

Shall  stain  the  pavement  with  it,  make  a  feast 

Fit  for  Lucullus,  or  Fra  Bastian  even  ; 

So  we  will  go  to  supper,  and  be  merry. 

FRA    SEBASTIAXO. 

Beware  !     Remember  that  Bolsena's  eels 

And  Yernage  wine  once  killed  a  Pope  of  Rome ! 

IPPOLITO. 

'T  was  a  French  Pope  ;  and  then  so  long  ago  ; 
Who  knows  ?  —  perhaps  the  story  is  not  true. 


V. 

BORGO    DELLE   VERGINE    AT    NAPLES. 
Room  in  the  Palace  of  JULIA  GOXZAGA.     Night. 
JULIA  GONZAGA,  GIOVANNI  VALDESSO. 
JULIA. 

Do  not  go  yet. 

VALDESSO. 

The  night  is  far  advanced  ; 
I  fear  to  stay  too  late,  and  weary  you 
With  these  discussions. 


44  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

I  have  much  to  say. 

I  speak  to  you,  Yaldesso,  with  that  frankness 
Which  is  the  greatest  privilege  of  friendship,  — 
Speak  as  I  hardly  would  to  my  confessor, 
Such  is  my  confidence  in  you. 

VALDESSO. 

Dear  Countess, 

If  loyalty  to  friendship  be  a  claim 
Upon  your  confidence,  then  I  may  claim  it. 

JULIA. 

Then  sit  again,  and  listen  unto  things 
That  nearer  are  to  me  than  life  itself. 

VALDESSO. 

In  all  things  I  am  happy  to  obey  you, 

And  happiest  then  when  you  command  me  most. 

JULIA. 

Laying  aside  all  useless  rhetoric, 

That  is  superfluous  between  us  two, 

I  come  at  once  unto  the  point,  and  say, 

You  know  my  outward  life,  my  rank  and  fortune ; 

Countess  of  Fondi,  Duchess  of  Trajetto, 

A  widow  rich  and  flattered,  for  whose  hand 

In  marriage  princes  ask,  and  ask  it  only 

To  be  rejected.     All  the  world  can  offer 

Lies  at  my  feet.     If  I  remind  you  of  it, 

It  is  not  in  the  way  of  idle  boasting, 

But  only  to  the  better  understanding 

Of  what  comes  after. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  45 

*  VALDESSO. 

God  hath  given  you  also 
Beauty  and  intellect ;  and  the  signal  grace 
To  lead  a  spotless  life  amid  temptations, 
That  others  yield  to. 

JULIA. 

But  the  inward  life,  - 

That  you  know  not ;  't  is  known  but  to  myself, 
And  is  to  me  a  mystery  and  a  pain. 
A  soul  disquieted,  and  ill  at  case, 
A  mind  perplexed  with  doubts  and  apprehensions, 
A  heart  dissatisfied  with  all  around  me, 
And  with  myself,  so  that  sometimes  I  weep, 
Discouraged  and  disgusted  with  the  world. 

VALDESSO. 

Whene'er  we  cross  a  river  at  a  ford, 
If  we  would  pass  in  safety,  we  must  keep 
Our  eyes  fixed  steadfast  on  the  shore  beyond, 
For  if  we  cast  them  on  the  flowing  stream, 
The  head  swims  with  it ;  so  if  we  would  cross 
The  running  flood  of  things  here  in  the  world, 
Our  souls  must  not  look  down,  but  fix  their  sight 
On  the  firm  land  beyond. 

JULIA. 

I  comprehend  you. 

You  think  I  am  too  worldly  ;  that  my  head 
Swims  with  the  giddy  ing  whirl  of  life  about  me. 
Is  that  your  meaning  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Yes ;  your  meditations 


46  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Are  more  of  this  world  and  its  vanities* 
Than  of  the  world  to  come, 

JULIA. 

Between  the  two 
I  am  confused. 

VALDESSO. 

Yet  have  I  seen  you  listen 
Enraptured  when  Fra  Bernardino  preached 
Of  faith  and  hope  and  charity. 

JULIA. 

I  listen, 

But  only  as  to  music  without  meaning. 
It  moves  me  for  the  moment,  and  I  think 
How  beautiful  it  is  to  be  a  saint, 
As  dear  Yittoria  is  ;  but  I  am  weak 
And  wayward,  and  I  soon  fall  back  again 
To  my  old  ways,  so  very  easily. 
There  are  too  many  week-days  for  one  Sunday. 

VALDESSO. 

Then  take  the  Sunday  with  you  through  the  week, 
And  sweeten  with  it  all  the  other  days. 

JULIA. 

In  part  I  do  so  ;  for  to  put  a  stop 

To  idle  tongues,  what  men  might  say  of  me 

If  I  lived  all  alone  here  in  my  palace, 

And  not  from  a  vocation  that  I  feel 

For  the  monastic  life,  I  now  am  living 

With  Sister  Caterina  at  the  convent 

Of  Santa  Chiara,  and  I  come  here  only 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  47 

On  certain  days,  for  my  affairs,  or  visits 

Of  ceremony,  or  to  be  with  friends. 

For  I  confess,  to  live  among  my  friends 

Is  Paradise  to  me  ;  my  Purgatory 

Is  living  among  people  I  dislike. 

And  so  I  pass  my  life  in  these  two  worlds, 

This  palace  and  the  convent. 

VALDESSO. 

It  was  then 

The  fear  of  man,  and  not  the  love  of  God, 
That  led  you  to  this  step.     Why  will  you  not 
Give  all  your  heart  to  God  ? 

JULIA. 

If  God  commands  it, 

Wherefore  hath  He  not  made  me  capable 
Of  doing  for  Him  what  I  wish  to  do 
As  easily  as  I  could  offer  Him 
This  jewel  from  my  hand,  this  gown  I  wear, 
Or  aught  else  that  is  mine  ? 

VALDESSO. 

The  hindrance  lies 
In  that  original  sin,  by  which  all  fell. 

JULIA. 

Ah  me,  I  cannot  bring  my  troubled  mind 
To  wish  well  to  that  Adam,  our  first  parent, 
Who  by  his  sin  lost  Paradise  for  us, 
And  brought  such  ills  upon  us. 

VALDESSO. 

We  ourselves, 


48  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  we  commit  a  sin,  lose  Paradise, 
As  much  as  he  did.     Let  us  think  of  this, 
And  how  we  may  regain  it. 

JULIA. 

Teach  me,  then, 

To  harmonize  the  discord  of  my  life, 
And  stop  the  painful  jangle  of  these  wires. 

VALDESSO. 

That  is  a  task  impossible,  until 

You  tune  your  heart-strings  to  a  higher  key 

Than  earthly  melodies. 

JULIA. 

How  shall  I  do  it  ? 

Point  out  to  me  the  way  of  this  perfection, 
And  I  will  follow  you  ;  for  you  have  made 
My  soul  enamored  with  it,  and  I  cannot 
Rest  satisfied  until  I  find  it  out. 
But  lead  me  privately,  so  that  the  world 
Hear  not  my  steps ;  I  would  not  give  occasion 
For  talk  among  the  people. 

VALDESSO. 

Now  at  last 

I  understand  you  fully.     Then,  what  need 
Is  there  for  us  to  beat  about  the  bush  ? 
I  know  what  you  desire  of  me. 

JULIA. 

What  rudeness ! 
If  you  already  know  it,  why  not  tell  me  ? 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  49 

VALDESSO. 

Because  I  rather  wait  for  you  to  ask  it 
With  your  own  lips. 

JULIA. 

Do  me  the  kindness,  then, 

To  speak  without  reserve ;  and  with  all  frankness, 
If  you  divine  the  truth,  will  I  confess  it. 

VALDESSO. 

I  am  content. 

JULIA. 

Then  speak. 

VALDESSO. 

You  would  he  free 

From  the  vexatious  thoughts  that  come  and  go 
Through  your  imagination,  and  would  have  me 
Point  out  some  royal  road  and  lady-like 
Which  you  may  walk  in,  and  not  wound  your  feet ; 
You  would  attain  to  the  divine  perfection, 
And  yet  not  turn  your  back  upon  the  world ; 
You  would  possess  humility  within, 
But  not  reveal  it  in  your  outward  actions ; 
You  would  have  patience,  hut  without  the  rude 
Occasions  that  require  its  exercise  ; 
You  would  despise  the  world,  but  in  such  fashion 
The  world  should  not  despise  you  in  return  ; 
Would  clothe  the  soul  with  all  the  Christian  graces, 
Yet  not  despoil  the  body  of  its  gauds  ; 
Would  feed  the  soul  with  spiritual  food, 
Yet  not  deprive  the  body  of  its  feasts ; 
Would  seem  angelic  in  the  sight  of  God, 
Yet  not  too  saint-like  in  the  eyes  of  men ; 


50  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

In  short,  would  lead  a  holy  Christian  life 
In  such  a  way  that  even  your  nearest  friend 
Would  not  detect  therein  one  circumstance 
To  show  a  change  from  what  it  was  before. 
Have  I  divined  your  secret  ? 

JULIA. 

You  have  drawn 

The  portrait  of  my  inner  self  as  truly 
As  the  most  skilful  painter  ever  painted 
A  human  face. 

VALDESSO. 

This  warrants  me  in  saying 
You  think  you  can  win  heaven  by  compromise, 
And  not  by  verdict. 

JULIA. 

You  have  often  told  me 
That  a  bad  compromise -was  better  even 
Than  a  good  verdict. 

VALDESSO. 

Yes,  in  suits  at  law  ; 
Not  in  religion.     With  the  human  soul 
There  is  no  compromise.     By  faith  alone 
Can  man  be  justified. 

JULIA. 

Hush,  dear  Valdesso  ; 
That  is  a  heresy.     Do  not,  I  pray  you, 
Proclaim  it  from  the  house-top,  but  preserve  it 
As  something  precious,  hidden  in  your  heart, 
As  I,  who  half  believe  and  tremble  at  it. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  53 

VALDESSO. 

I  must  proclaim  the  truth. 

JULIA. 

Enthusiast ! 

Why  must  you  ?     You  imperil  both  yourself 
And  friends  by  your  imprudence.     Pray,  be  patient 
You  have  occasion  now  to  show  that  virtue 
Which  you  lay  stress  upon.     Let  us  return 
To  our  lost  pathway.     Show  me  by  what  steps 

I   shall    Walk   in   it.  [Convent  bells  are  heard. 

VALDESSO. 

Hark  !  the  convent  bells 

Are  ringing  ;  it  is  midnight ;  I  must  leave  you. 
And  yet  I  linger.     Pardon  me,  dear  Countess, 
Since  you  to-night  have  made  me  your  confessor, 
If  I  so  far  may  venture,  I  will  warn  you 
Upon  one  point. 

JULIA. 

What  is  it  ?     Speak,  I  pray  you, 
For  I  have  no  concealments  in  my  conduct ; 
All  is  as  open  as  the  light  of  day. 
What  is  it  you  would  warn  me  of  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Your  friendship 
With  Cardinal  Ippolito. 

JULIA. 

What  is  there 

To  cause  suspicion  or  alarm  in  that, 
More  than  in  friendships  that  I  entertain 
With  you  and  others  ?     I  ne'er  sat  with  him 


54  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Alone  at  night,  as  I  am  sitting  now 
With  you,  Yaldesso. 

VALDESSO. 

Pardon  me  ;  the  portrait 
That  Era  Bastiano  painted  was  for  him. 
Is  that  quite  prudent  ? 

JULIA. 

That  is  the  same  question 
Vittoria  put  to  me,  when  I  last  saw  her. 
I  make  you  the  same  answer.     That  was  not 
A  pledge  of  love,  but  of  pure  gratitude. 
Recall  the  adventure  of  that  dreadful  night 
When  Barbarossa  with  two  thousand  Moors 
Landed  upon  the  coast,  and  in  the  darkness 
Attacked  my  castle.     Then,  without  delay, 
The  Cardinal  came  hurrying  down  from  Rome 
To  rescue  and  protect  me.     Was  it  wrong 
That  in  an  hour  like  that  I  did  not  weigh 
Too  nicely  this  or  that,  but  granted  him 
A  boon  that  pleased  him,  and  that  flattered  me  ? 

VALDESSO. 

Only  beware  lest,  in  disguise  of  friendship, 
Another  corsair,  worse  than  Barbarossa, 
Steal  in  and  seize  the  castle,  not  by  storm 
But  strategy.     And  now  I  take  my  leave. 

JULIA. 

Farewell ;  but  ere  you  go  look  forth  and  see 
How  night  hath  hushed  the  clamor  and  the  stir 
Of  the  tumultuous  streets.     The  cloudless  moon 
Roofs  the  whole  city  as  with  tiles  of  silver  ; 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


The  dim,  mysterious  sea  in  silence  sleeps ; 
And  straight  into  the  air  Vesuvius  lifts 
His  plume  of  smoke.     How  beautiful  it  is  ! 


[Voices  in  the  street. 


GIOVAN    ANDREA. 


Poisoned  at  Itri. 


ANOTHER    VOICE. 

Poisoned  ?     Who  is  poisoned  ? 


GIOVAN   ANDREA. 

The  Cardinal  Ippolito,  my  master. 
Call  it  malaria.     It  was  very  sudden. 


[Julia  swoons. 


56  MICHAEL  ANGEL  0. 

VI. 

VITTORIA   COLONNA. 

A  room  in  the  Torre  Argentina. 
VITTORIA  COLONNA  and  JULIA  GONZAGA. 

VITTORIA. 

Come  to  my  arms  and  to  my  heart  once  more  ; 
My  soul  goes  out  to  meet  you  and  embrace  you, 
For  we  are  of  the  sisterhood  of  sorrow. 
I  know  what  you  have  suffered. 

JULIA. 

Name  it  not. 
Let  me  forget  it. 

VITTOKIA. 

I  will  say  no  more. 

Let  me  look  at  you.     What  a  joy  it  is 
To  see  your  face,  to  hear  your  voice  again ! 
You  bring  with  you  a  breath  as  of  the  morn, 
A  memory  of  the  far-off  happy  days 
When  we  were  young.    When  did  you  come  from  Fondi  ? 

JULIA. 

I  have  not  been  at  Fondi  since  — 

VITTORIA. 

Ah  me  ! 
You  need  not  speak  the  word  ;  I  understand  you. 

JULIA. 

I  came  from  Naples  by  the  lovely  valley, 
The  Terra  di  Lavoro. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  57 

VITTOKiA. 

And  you  find  me 

But  just  returned  from  n  long  journey  northward. 
I  have  been  staying  with  that  noble  woman 
Renee  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara. 

JULIA. 

Oh,  tell  me  of  the  Duchess.     I  have  heard 
Flaminio  speak  her  praises  with  such  warmth 
That  I  am  eager  to  hear  more  of  her 
And  of  her  brilliant  court. 

VITTOEIA. 

You  shall  hear  all. 

But  first  sit  down  and  listen  patiently 
While  I  confess  myself. 

JULIA. 

What  deadly  sin 
Have  you  committed  ? 

VITTOR1A. 

Not  a  sin  ;  a  folly. 

I  chid  you  once  at  Ischia,  when  you  told  me 
That  brave  Fra  Bastian  was  to  paint  your  portrait. 

JULIA. 

Well  I  remember  it. 

VITTORIA. 

Then  chide  me  now, 

For  I  confess  to  something  still  more  strange. 
Old  as  I  am,  I  have  at  last  consented 
To  the  entreaties  and  the  supplications 
Of  Michael  Angelo  — 


58  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

To  marry  him  ? 

VITTORIA. 

I  pray  you,  do  not  jest  with  me  !     You  know, 
Or  you  should  know,  that  never  such  a  thought 
Entered  my  breast.     I  am  already  married. 
The  Marquis  of  Pescara  is  my  husband, 
And  death  has  not  divorced  us. 

JULIA. 

Pardon  me. 
Have  I  offended  you  ? 

VITTORIA. 

No,  but  have  hurt  me. 
Unto  my  buried  lord  I  give  myself, 
Unto  my  friend  the  shadow  of  myself, 
My  portrait.     It  is  not  from  vanity, 
But  for  the  love  I  bear  him. 

JULIA. 

I  rejoice 

To  hear  these  words.     Oh,  this  will  be  a  portrait 
Worthy  of  both  of  you  !  [A  knock. 

VITTORIA. 

Hark  !  he  is  coming. 

JULIA. 

And  shall  I  go  or  stay  ? 

VITTORIA. 

By  all  means,  stay. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  59 

The  drawing  will  be  better  for  your  presence ; 
You  will  enliven  me. 

JULIA. 

I  shall  not  speak ; 

The  presence  of  great  men  doth  take  from  me 
All  power  of  speech.     I  only  gaze  at  them 
In  silent  wonder,  as  if  they  were  gods, 
Or  the  inhabitants  of  some  other  planet. 

Enter  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
VITTORIA. 

Come  in. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  fear  my  visit  is  ill-timed  ; 
I  interrupt  you. 

VITTORIA. 

No  ;  this  is  a  friend 

Of  yours  as  well  as  mine,  —  the  Lady  Julia, 
The  Duchess  of  Trajetto. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO    to   JULIA. 

I  salute  you. 

'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen  your  face,  my  lady  ; 
Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  having  seen  it, 
One  never  can  forget  it. 

JULIA. 

You  are  kind 
To  keep  me  in  your  memory. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

It  is 


60  MTCHAEL  ANGELO. 

The  privilege  of  age  to  speak  with  frankness. 
You  will  not  be  offended  when  I  say 
That  never  was  your  beauty  more  divine. 

JULIA. 

When  Michael  Angelo  condescends  to  flatter 
Or  praise  me,  I  am  proud,  and  not  offended. 

VITTORIA. 

Now  this  is  gallantry  enough  for  one ; 
Show  me  a  little. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  gracious  lady, 

You  know  I  have  not  words  to  speak  your  praise. 
I  think  of  you  in  silence.     You  conceal 
Your  manifold  perfections  from  all  eyes, 
And  make  yourself  more  saint-like  day  by  day, 
And  day  by  day  men  worship  you  the  more. 
But  now  your  hour  of  martyrdom  has  come. 
You  know  why  I  am  here. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah  yes,  I  know  it ; 

And  meet  my  fate  with  fortitude.     You  find  me 
Surrounded  by  the  labors  of  your  hands : 
The  Woman  of  Samaria  at  the  Well, 
The  Mater  Dolorosa,  and  the  Christ 
Upon  the  Cross,  beneath  which  you  have  written 
Those  memorable  words  of  Alighieri, 
"  Men  have  forgotten  how  much  blood  it  costs." 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  now  I  come  to  add  one  labor  more, 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  63 

If  you  will  call  that  labor  which  is  pleasure, 
And  only  pleasure. 


VITTORIA. 

How  shall  I  be  seated  ? 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  opening  his  portfolio. 
Just  as  you  are.     The  light  falls  well  upon  you. 

VITTORIA. 

I  am  ashamed  to  steal  the  time  from  you 
That  should  be  given  to  the  Sistine  Chapel. 
How  does  that  work  go  on  ? 


MICHAEL    ANGELO, 

But  tardily. 

Old  men  work  slowly.     Brain  and  hand  alike 
Are  dull  and  torpid.     To  die  young  is  best, 
And  not  to  be  remembered  as  old  men 
Tottering  about  in  their  decrepitude. 

VITTORIA. 

My  dear  Maestro  !  have  you,  then,  forgotten 
The  story  of  Sophocles  in  his  old  age  ? 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

What  story  is  it  ? 

VITTORIA. 

When  his  sons  accused  him, 
Before  the  Areopagus,  of  dotage, 
For  all  defence,  he  read  there  to  his  judges 
The  tragedy  of  (Edipus  Coloneus,  — 
The  work  of  his  old  age. 


64  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

'T  is  an  illusion, 

A  fabulous  story,  that  will  lead  old  men 
Into  a  thousand  follies  and  conceits. 

VITTORIA. 

So  you  may  show  to  cavillers  your  painting 
Of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Now  you  and  Lady  Julia  shall  resume 
The  conversation  that  I  interrupted. 

VITTORIA. 

It  was  of  no  great  import ;  nothing  more 
Nor  less  than  my  late  visit  to  Ferrara, 
And  what  I  saw  there  in  the  ducal  palace. 
Will  it  not  interrupt  you  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Not  the  least. 

VITTORIA. 

Well,  first,  then,  of  Duke  Ercole  :  a  man 
Cold  in  his  manners,  and  reserved  and  silent, 
And  yet  magnificent  in  all  his  ways ; 
Not  hospitable  unto  new  ideas, 
But  from  state  policy,  and  certain  reasons 
Concerning  the  investiture  of  the  duchy, 
A  partisan  of  Rome,  and  consequently 
Intolerant  of  all  the  new  opinions. 

JULIA. 
I  should  not  like  the  Duke.     These  silent  men, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  65 

Who  only  look  and  listen,  are  like  wells 
That  have  no  water  in  them,  deep  and  empty. 
How  could  the  daughter  of  a  king  of  France 
Wed  such  a  duke  ? 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

The  men  that  women  marry, 
And  why  they  marry  them,  will  always  be 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery  to  the  world. 

VITTORIA. 

And  then  the  Duchess,  —  how  shall  I  describe  her, 

Or  tell  the  merits  of  that  happy  nature, 

Which  pleases  most  when  least  it  thinks  of  pleasing  ? 

Not  beautiful,  perhaps,  in  form  and  feature, 

Yet  with  an  inward  beauty,  that  shines  through 

Each  look  and  attitude  and  word  and  gesture ; 

A  kindly  grace  of  manner  and  behavior, 

A  something  in  her  presence  and  her  ways 

That  makes  her  beautiful  beyond  the  reach 

Of  mere  external  beauty ;  and  in  heart 

So  noble  and  devoted  to  the  truth, 

And  so  in  sympathy  with  all  who  strive 

After  the  higher  life. 

JULIA. 

She  draws  me  to  her 
As  much  as  her  Duke  Ercole  repels  me. 

VITTORIA. 

Then  the  devout  and  honorable  women 

That  grace  her  court,  and  make  it  good  to  be  there  ; 

Franccsca  Bucyronia,  the  true-hearted, 

Lavinia  della  Rovere  and  the  Orsini, 


66  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

The  Magdalena  and  the  Cherubina, 
And  Anne  de  Parthenai,  who  sings  so  sweetly  ; 
All  lovely  women,  fall  of  noble  thoughts 
And  aspirations  after  noble  things. 

JULIA. 

Boccaccio  would  have  envied  you  such  dames. 

VITTORIA. 

No ;  his  Fiammettas  and  his  Philomenas 
Are  fitter  company  for  Ser  Giovanni ; 
I  fear  he  hardly  would  have  comprehended 
The  women  that  I  speak  of. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Yet  he  wrote 

The  story  of  Griselda.     That  is  something 
To  set  down  in  his  favor. 

VITTORIA. 

With  these  ladies 

Was  a  young  girl,  Olympia  M  or  at  a, 
Daughter  of  Fulvio,  the  learned  scholar, 
Famous  in  all  the  universities  : 
A  marvellous  child,  who  at  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  in  the  daily  round  of  household  cares, 
Hath  learned  both  Greek  and  Latin ;  and  is  now 
A  favorite  of  the  Duchess  and  companion 
Of  Princess  Anne.     This  beautiful  young  Sappho 
Sometimes  recited  to  us  Grecian  odes 
That  she  had  written,  with  a  voice  whose  sadness 
Thrilled  and  o'ermastered  me,  and  made  me  look 
Into  the  future  time,  and  ask  myself 
What  destiny  will  be  hers. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

A  sad  one,  surely. 

Frost  kills  the  flowers  that  blossom  out  of  season  ; 
And  these  precocious  intellects  portend 
A  life  of  sorrow  or  an  early  death. 

V1TTORIA. 

About  the  court  were  many  learned  men  ; 
Chilian  Sinapius  from  beyond  the  Alps, 


07 


And  Celio  Curione,  and  Manzolli, 

The  Duke's  physician  ;  and  a  pale  young  man, 

Charles  d'Espeville  of  Geneva,  whom  the  Duchess 

Doth  much  delight  to  talk  with  and  to  read, 

For  he  hath  written  a  book  of  Institutes 

The  Duchess  greatly  praises,  though  some  call  it 

The  Koran  of  the  heretics. 


68  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIA. 

And  what  poets 

Were  there  to  sing  you  madrigals  and  praise 
Olympia's  eyes  and  Cherubina's  tresses  ? 

VITTORIA. 

None  ;  for  great  Ariosto  is  no  more. 
The  voice  that  filled  those  halls  with  melody 
Has  long  been  hushed  in  death. 

JULIA. 

You  should  have  made 
A  pilgrimage  unto  the  poet's  tomb, 
And  laid  a  wreath  upon  it,  for  the  words 
He  spake  of  you. 

VITTORIA. 

And  of  yourself  no  less, 
And  of  our  master,  Michael  Angelo. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Of  me  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Have  you  forgotten  that  he  calls  you 
Michael,  less  man  than  angel,  and  divine  ? 
You  are  ungrateful. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

A  mere  play  on  words. 
That  adjective  he  wanted  for  a  rhyme, 
To  match  with  Gian  Bellino  and  Urbino. 

VITTORIA. 

Bernardo  Tasso  is  no  longer  there, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  69 

Nor  the  gay  troubadour  of  Gascony, 
Clement  Marot,  surnamcd  by  flatterers 
The  Prince  of  Poets  and  the  Poet  of  Princes, 
Who,  being  looked  upon  with  much  disfavor 
By  the  Duke  Ercole,  has  fled  to  Venice. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

There  let  him  stay  with  Pietro  Aretino, 

The  Scourge  of  Princes,  also  called  Divine. 

The  title  is  so  common  in  our  mouths, 

That  even  the  Pifferari  of  Abruzzi, 

Who  play  their  bag-pipes  in  the  streets  of  Rome 

At  the  Epiphany,  will  bear  it  soon, 

And  will  deserve  it  better  than  some  poets. 

YITTORIA. 

What  bee  hath  stung  you  ? 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

One  that  makes  no  honey ; 

One  that  comes  buzzing  in  through  every  window, 
And  stabs  men  with  his  sting.     A  bitter  thought 
Passed  through  my  mind,  but  it  is  gone  again ; 
I  spake  too  hastily. 

JULIA. 

I  pray  you,  show  me 
What  you  have  done. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Not  yet ;  it  is  not  finished. 


PART    SECOND. 
I. 

MONOLOGUE. 

A  room  in  MIOHAKL  AXGELO'S  Iwuse. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

FLED  to  Yiterbo,  the  old  Papal  city 

Where  once  an  Emperor,  humbled  in  his  pride, 

Held  the  Pope's  stirrup,  as  his  Holiness 

Alighted  from  his  mule  !     A  fugitive 

From  Cardinal  Caraffa's  hate,  who  hurls 

His  thunders  at  the  house  of  the  Colonna, 

With  endless  bitterness  !  —  Among  the  nuns 

In  Santa  Catarina's  convent  hidden, 

Herself  in  soul  a  nun  !     And  now  she  chides  me 

For  my  too  frequent  letters,  that  disturb 

Her  meditations,  and  that  hinder  me 

And  keep  me  from  my  work  ;  now  graciously 

She  thanks  me  for  the  crucifix  I  sent  her, 

And  says  that  she  will  keep  it :  with  one  hand 

Inflicts  a  wound,  and  with  the  other  heals  it.  [Reading. 

"  Profoundly  I  believed  that  God  would  grant  you 
A  supernatural  faith  to  paint  this  Christ ; 
I  wished  for  that  which  now  I  see  fulfilled 
So  marvellously,  exceeding  all  my  wishes. 
Nor  more  could  be  desired,  or  even  so  much. 
And  greatly  I  rejoice  that  you  have  made 
The  angel  on  the  right  so  beautiful ; 
For  the  Archangel  Michael  will  place  you, 
You,  Michael  Angelo,  on  that  new  day, 


74  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Upon  the  Lord's  right  hand  !     And  waiting  that, 
How  can  I  better  serve  you  than  to  pray 
To  this  sweet  Christ  for  you,  and  to  beseech  you 
To  hold  me  altogether  yours  in  all  things." 

Well,  I  will  write  less  often,  or  no  more, 

But  wait  her  coming.     No  one  born  in  Rome 

Can  live  elsewhere  ;  but  he  must  pine  for  Rome, 

And  must  return  to  it.     I,  who  am  born 

And  bred  a  Tuscan  and  a  Florentine, 

Feel  the  attraction,  and  I  linger  here 

As  if  I  were  a  pebble  in  the  pavement 

Trodden  by  priestly  feet.     This  I  endure, 

Because  I  breathe  in  Rome  an  atmosphere 

Heavy  with  odors  of  the  laurel  leaves 

That  crowned  great  heroes  of  the  sword  and  pen, 

In  ages  past.     I  feel  myself  exalted 

To  walk  the  streets  in  which  a  Virgil  walked, 

Or  Trajan  rode  in  triumph  ;  but  far  more, 

And  most  of  all,  because  the  great  Colonna 

Breathes  the  same  air  I  breathe,  and  is  to  me 

An  inspiration.     Now  that  she  is  gone, 

Rome  is  no  longer  Rome  till  she  return. 

This  feeling  overmasters  me.     I  know  not 

If  it  be  love,  this  strong  desire  to  be 

Forever  in  her  presence  ;  but  I  know 

That  I,  who  was  the  friend  of  solitude, 

And  ever  was  best  pleased  when  most  alone, 

Now  weary  grow  of  my  own  company. 

For  the  first  time  old  age  seems  lonely  to  me. 

[Opening  the  Divina  Commedia. 

I  turn  for  consolation  to  the  leaves 

Of  the  great  master  of  our  Tuscan  tongue, 

Whose  words,  like  colored  garnet-shirls  in  lava, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  75 

Betray  the  heat  in  which  they  were  engendered. 

A  mendicant,  he  ate  the  hitter  bread 

Of  others,  but  repaid  their  meagre  gifts 

With  immortality.     In  courts  of  princes 

He  was  a  by-word,  and  in  streets  of  towns 

Was  mocked  by  children,  like  the  Hebrew  prophet, 

Himself  a  prophet.     I  too  know  the  cry, 

Go  up,  thou  bald  head  !  from  a  generation 

That,  wanting  reverence,  wanteth  the  best  food 

The  soul  can  feed  on.     There  's  not  room  enough 

For  age  and  youth  upon  this  little  planet. 

Age  must  give  way.     There  was  not  room  enough 

Even  for  this  great  poet.     In  his  song 

I  hear  reverberate  the  gates  of  Florence, 

Closing  upon  him,  never  more  to  open ; 

But  mingled  with  the  sound  are  melodies 

Celestial  from  the  gates  of  paradise. 

He  came,  and  he  is  gone.     The  people  knew  not 

What  manner  of  man  was  passing  by  their  doors, 

Until  he  passed  no  more  ;  but  in  his  vision 

He  saw  the  torments  and  beatitudes 

Of  souls  condemned  or  pardoned,  and  hath  left 

Behind  him  this  sublime  Apocalypse. 

I  strive  in  vain  to  draw  here  on  the  margin 

The  face  of  Beatrice.     It  is  not  hers, 

But  the  Colonna's.     Each  hath  his  ideal, 

The  image  of  some  woman  excellent, 

That  is  his  guide.     No  Grecian  art,  nor  Roman, 

Hath  yet  revealed  such  loveliness  as  hers. 


76  MICHAEL  ANGEL  0. 


n. 

VITERBO. 

VITTORIA  COLONNA  at  the  convent  window. 

VITTORIA. 

Parting  with  friends  is  temporary  death, 

As  all  death  is.     We  see  no  more  their  faces, 

Nor  hear  their  voices,  save  in  memory  ; 

But  messages  of  love  give  us  assurance 

That  we  are  not  forgotten.     Who  shall  say 

That  from  the  world  of  spirits  comes  no  greeting, 

No  message  of  remembrance  ?     It  may  be 

The  thoughts  that  visit  us,  we  know  not  whence, 

Sudden  as  inspiration,  are  the  whispers 

Of  disembodied  spirits,  speakmg  to  us 

As  friends,  who  wait  outside  a  prison  wall, 

Through  the  barred  windows  speak  to  those  within. 

[A  pause. 

As  quiet  as  the  lake  that  lies  beneath  me, 
As  quiet  as  the  tranquil  sky  above  me, 
As  quiet  as  a  heart  that  beats  no  more, 
This  convent  seems.     Above,  below,  all  peace  ! 
Silence  and  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friends, 
Are  with  me  here,  and  the  tumultuous  world 
Makes  no  more  noise  than  the  remotest  planet. 
O  gentle  spirit,  unto  the  third  circle 
Of  heaven  among  the  blessed  souls  ascended, 
Who,  living  in  the  faith  and  dying  for  it, 
Have  gone  to  their  reward,  I  do  not  sigh 
For  thee  as  being  dead,  but  for  myself 
That  I  am  still  alive.     Turn  those  dear  eyes, 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  77 

Once  so  benignant  to  me,  upon  mine, 
That  open  to  their  tears  such  uncontrolled 
And  such  continual  issue.     Still  awhile 
Have  patience  ;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
A  few  more  goings  in  and  out  these  doors, 
A  few  more  chimings  of  these  convent  bells, 
A  few  more  prayers,  a  few  more  sighs  and  tears, 
And  the  long  agony  of  this  life  will  end, 
And  I  shall  be  with  thee.     If  I  am  wanting 
To  thy  well-being,  as  thou  art  to  mine, 
Have  patience ;  I  will  come  to  thee  at  last. 
Ye  minds  that  loiter  in  these  cloister  gardens, 
Or  wander  far  above  the  city  walls, 
Bear  unto  him  this  message,  that  I  ever 
Or  speak  or  think  of  him,  or  weep  for  him. 

By  unseen  hands  uplifted  in  the  light 
Of  sunset,  yonder  solitary  cloud 
Floats,  with  its  white  apparel  blown  abroad, 
And  wafted  up  to  heaven.     It  fades  away, 
And  melts  into  the  air.     Ah,  would  that  I 
Could  thus  be  wafted  unto  thee,  Francesco, 
A  cloud  of  white,  an  incorporeal  spirit ! 


m. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO   AND  BENVEXUTO  CELLINI. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  BEXVEXUTO  CELLIXI   in  yay  attire. 

BENVENUTO. 

A  good  day  and  good  year  to  the  divine 
Maestro  Michael  Angelo,  the  sculptor  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Welcome,  my  Benvenuto. 


78  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

BENVENUTO. 

That  is  what 

My  father  said,  the  first  time  he  beheld 
This  handsome  face.     But  say  farewell,  not  welcome. 
I  come  to  take  my  leave.     I  start  for  Florence 
As  fast  as  horse  can  carry  me.     I  long 
To  set  once  more  upon  its  level  flags 
These  feet,  made  sore  by  your  vile  Roman  pavements. 
Come  with  me  ;  you  are  wanted  there  in  Florence. 
The  Sacristy  is  not  finished. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Speak  not  of  it ! 

How  damp  and  cold  it  was  !     How  my  bones  ached 
And  my  head  reeled,  when  I  was  working  there  ! 
I  am  too  old.     I  will  stay  here  in  Rome, 
Where  all  is  old  and  crumbling,  like  myself, 
To  hopeless  ruin.     All  roads  lead  to  Rome. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  all  lead  out  of  it. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

There  is  a  charm, 

A  certain  something  in  the  atmosphere, 
That  all  men  feel,  and  no  man  can  describe. 

BENVENUTO. 

Malaria  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Yes,  malaria  of  the  mind, 
Out  of  this  tomb  of  the  majestic  Past ; 
The  fever  to  accomplish  some  great  work 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  81 

That  will  not  let  us  sleep.     I  must  go  on 
Until  I  die. 


BENVENUTO. 

Do  you  ne'er  think  of  Florence  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Yes ;  whenever 

I  think  of  anything  beside  my  work, 
I  think  of  Florence.     I  remember,  too, 
The  bitter  days  I  passed  among  the  quarries 
Of  Seravezza  and  Pietrasanta  ; 
Road -building  in  the  marshes  ;  stupid  people, 
And  cold  and  rain  incessant,  and  mad  gusts 
Of  mountain  wind,  like  howling  dervishes, 
That  spun  and  whirled  the  eddying  snow  about  them 
As  if  it  were  a  garment ;  aye,  vexations 
And  troubles  of  all  kinds,  that  ended  only 
In  loss  of  time  and  money. 

BENVENUTO. 

True,  Maestro ; 

But  that  was  not  in  Florence.     You  should  leave 
Such  work  to  others.     Sweeter  memories 
Cluster  about  you,  in  the  pleasant  city 
Upon  the  Arno. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

In  my  wraking  dreams 
I  see  the  marvellous  dome  of  Brunelleschi, 
Ghiberti's  gates  of  bronze,  and  Giotto's  tower ; 
And  Ghirlandajo's  lovely  Benci  glides 
With  folded  hands  amid  my  troubled  thoughts, 
A  splendid  vision  !     Time  rides  with  the  old 


82  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

At  a  great  pace.     As  travellers  on  swift  steeds 

See  the  near  landscape  fly  and  flow  behind  them, 

While  the  remoter  fields  and  dim  horizons 

Go  with  them,  and  seem  wheeling  round  to  meet  them, 

So  in  old  age  things  near  us  slip  away, 

And  distant  things  go  with  us.     Pleasantly 

Come  back  to  me  the  days  when,  as  a  youth, 

I  walked  with  Ghirlandajo  in  the  gardens 

Of  Medici,  and  saw  the  antique  statues, 

The  forms  august  of  gods  and  godlike  men, 

And  the  great  world  of  art  revealed  itself 

To  my  young  eyes.     Then  all  that  man  hath  done 

Seemed  possible  to  me.     Alas !  how  little 

Of  all  I  dreamed  of  has  my  hand  achieved  ! 

BENVENUTO. 

Nay,  let  the  Night  and  Morning,  let  Lorenzo 
And  Julian  in  the  Sacristy  at  Florence, 
Prophets  and  Sibyls  in  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
And  the  Last  Judgment  answer.     Is  it  finished  ? 


.       MICHAEL   ANGELO.  83 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

The  work  is  nearly  done.     But  this  Last  Judgment 

Has  been  the  cause  of  more  vexation  to  me 

Than  it  will  be  of  honor.     Ser  Biagio, 

Master  of  ceremonies  at  the  Papal  court, 

A  man  punctilious  and  over  nice, 

Calls  it  improper  ;  says  that  those  nude  forms, 

Showing  their  nakedness  in  such  shameless  fashion, 

Are  better  suited  to  a  common  bagnio, 

Or  wayside  wine-shop,  than  a  Papal  Chapel. 

To  punish  him  I  painted  him  as  Minos 

And  leave  him  there  as  master  of  ceremonies 

In  the  Infernal  Regions.     What  would  you 

Have  done  to  such  a  man  ? 

EENVENUTO. 

I  would  have  killed  him. 
When  any  one  insults  me,  if  I  can 
I  kill  him,  kill  him. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Oh,  you  gentlemen, 

Who  dress  in  silks  and  velvets,  and  wear  swords, 
Are  ready  with  your  weapons,  and  have  all 
A  taste  for  homicide. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  learned  that  lesson 

Under  Pope  Clement  at  the  siege  of  Rome, 
Some  twenty  years  ago.     As  I  was  standing 
Upon  the  ramparts  of  the  Campo  Santo 
With  Alessandro  Bene,  I  beheld 
A  sea  of  fog,  that  covered  all  the  plain, 
And  hid  from  us  the  foe ;  when  suddenly, 


84  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

A  misty  figure,  like  an  apparition, 

Rose  up  above  the  fog,  as  if  on  horseback. 

At  this  I  aimed  my  arquebus,  and  fired. 

The  figure  vanished  ;  and  there  rose  a  cry 

Out  of  the  darkness,  long  and  fierce  and  loud, 

With  imprecations  in  all  languages. 

It  was  the  Constable  of  France,  the  Bourbon, 

That  I  had  slain. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Rome  should  be  grateful  to  you. 

BENTENUTO. 

But  has  not  been ;  you  shall  hear  presently. 

During  the  siege  I  served  as  bombardier, 

There  in  St.  Angelo.     His  Holiness, 

One  day,  was  walking  with  his  Cardinals 

On  the  round  bastion,  while  I  stood  above 

Among  my  falconets.     All  thought  and  feeling, 

All  skill  in  art  and  all  desire  of  fame, 

Were  swallowed  up  in  the  delightful  music 

Of  that  artillery.     I  saw  far  off, 

Within  the  enemy's  trenches  on  the  Prati, 

A  Spanish  cavalier  in  scarlet  cloak  ; 

And  firing  at  him  with  due  aim  and  range, 

I  cut  the  gay  Hidalgo  in  two  pieces. 

The  eyes  are  dry  that  wept  for  him  in  Spain. 

His  Holiness,  delighted  beyond  measure 

With  such  display  of  gunnery,  and  amazed 

To  see  the  man  in  scarlet  cut  in  two, 

Gave  me  his  benediction,  and  absolved  me 

From  all  the  homicides  I  had  committed 

In  service  of  the  Apostolic  Church, 

Or  should  commit  thereafter.     From  that  day 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

1  have  not  held  in  very  high  esteem 
The  life  of  man. 


85 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  who  absolved  Pope  Clement  ? 
Now  let  us  speak  of  Art. 

I3ENVENUTO. 

Of  what  you  will. 


MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Say,  have  you  seen  our  friend  Fra  Bastian  lately, 
Since  by  a  turn  of  fortune  he  became 
Friar  of  the  Signet  ? 


BEXVENUTO. 

Faith,  a  pretty  artist 
To  pass  his  clays  in  stamping  leaden  seals 
On  Papal  bulls  ! 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

He  has  grown  fat  and  lazy, 
As  if  the  lead  clung  to  him  like  a  sinker. 
He  paints  no  more,  since  he  was  sent  to  Fondi 
By  Cardinal  Ippolito  to  paint 
The  fair  Gonzaga.     Ah,  you  should  have  seen  him 
As  I  did,  riding  through  the  city  gate, 
In  his  brown  hood,  attended  by  four  horsemen, 
Completely  armed,  to  frighten  the  banditti. 
I  think  he  would  have  frightened  them  alone, 
For  he  was  rounder  than  the  O  of  Giotto. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  must  have  looked  more  like  a  sack  of  meal 
Than  a  great  painter. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Well,  he  is  not  great, 
But  still  I  like  him  greatly.     Benvenuto, 
Have  faith  in  nothing  but  in  industry. 
Be  at  it  late  and  early  ;  persevere, 
And  work  right  on  through  censure  and  applause, 
Or  else  abandon  Art. 

BENVENUTO. 

No  man  works  harder 
Than  I  do.     I  am  not  a  moment  idle. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

And  what  have  you  to  show  me  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

This  gold  ring, 
Made  for  his  Holiness,  —  my  latest  work, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  87 

And  I  am  proud  of  it.     A  single  diamond, 
Presented  by  the  Emperor  to  the  Pope. 
Targhetta  of  Venice  set  and  tinted  it ; 
I  have  reset  it,  and  retinted  it 
Divinely,  as  you  sec.     The  jewellers 
Say  I  've  surpassed  Targhetta. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Let  me  see  it. 
A  pretty  jewel. 

BENVENTJTO. 

That  is  not  the  expression. 
Pretty  is  not  a  very  pretty  word 
To  be  applied  to  such  a  precious  stone, 
Given  by  an  Emperor  to  a  Pope,  and  set 
By  Benvenuto  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Messcr  Benvenuto, 

I  lose  all  patience  with  you  ;  for  the  gifts 
That  God  hath  given  you  are  of  such  a  kind, 
They  should  be  put  to  far  more  noble  uses 
Than  setting  diamonds  for  the  Pope  of  Rome. 
You  can  do  greater  things. 

BENVENUTO. 

The  God  who  made  me 

Knows  why  he  made  me  what  I  am,  —  a  goldsmith, 
A  mere  artificer. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Oh  no  ;  an  artist, 
Richly  endowed  by  nature,  but  who  wraps 


88  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

His  talent  in  a  napkin,  and  consumes 
His  life  in  vanities. 


BENVENUTO. 

Michael  Angelo 

May  say  what  Benvenuto  would  not  bear 
From  any  other  man.     He  speaks  the  truth. 
I  know  my  life  is  wasted  and  consumed 
In  vanities  ;  but  I  have  better  hours 
And  higher  aspirations  than  you  think. 
Once,  when  a  prisoner  at  St.  Angelo, 
Fasting  and  praying  in  the  midnight  darkness, 
In  a  celestial  vision  I  beheld 
A  crucifix  in  the  sun,  of  the  same  substance 
As  is  the  sun  itself.     And  since  that  hour 
There  is  a  splendor  round  about  my  head, 
That  may  be  seen  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset 
Above  my  shadow  on  the  grass.     And  now 
I  know  that  I  am  in  the  grace  of  God, 
And  none  henceforth  can  harm  me. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

None  but  one, 

None  but  yourself,  who  are  your  greatest  foe.  . 
He  that  respects  himself  is  safe  from  others  ; 
He  wears  a  coat  of  mail  that  none  can  pierce. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  always  wear  one. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

O  incorrigible ! 

At  least,  forget  not  the  celestial  vision. 
Man  must  have  something  higher  than  himself 
To  think  of. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  89 

BENVENUTO. 

That  I  know  full  well.     Now  listen. 
I  have  been  sent  for  into  France,  where  grow 
The  Lilies  that  illumine  heaven  and  earth, 
And  carry  in  mine  equipage  the  model 
Of  a  most  marvellous  golden  salt-cellar 
For  the  king's  table  ;  and  here  in  my  brain 
A  statue  of  Mars  Armipotent  for  the  fountain 
Of  Fontainebleau,  colossal,  wonderful. 
I  go  a  goldsmith,  to  return  a  sculptor. 
And  so  farewell,  great  Master.     Think  of  me 
As  one  who,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  follies, 
Had  also  his  ambition,  and  aspired 
To  better  things. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Do  not  forget  the  vision. 

[Sitting  down  again  to  the  Divina  Commedia. 

Now  in  what  circle  of  his  poem  sacred 

Would  the  great  Florentine  have  placed  this  man  ? 

Whether  in  Phlegethon,  the  river  of  blood, 

Or  in  the  fiery  belt  of  Purgatory, 

I  know  not,  but  most  surely  not  with  those 

Who  walk  in  leaden  cloaks.     Though  he  is  one 

Whose  passions,  like  a  potent  alkahest, 

Dissolve  his  better  nature,  he  is  not 

That  despicable  thing,. a  hypocrite; 

He  doth  not  cloak  his  vices,  nor  deny  them. 

Come  back,  my  thoughts,  from  him  to  Paradise. 


90  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

IV. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO   DEL  PIOMBO. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO  ;  FRA  SEBASTIANO  DEL  PIOMBO. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  not  turning  round. 
Who  is  it  ? 

FKA    SEBASTIANO. 

Wait,  for  I  am  out  of  breath 
In  climbing  your  steep  stairs. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Ah,  my  Bastiano, 

If  you  went  up  and  down  as  many  stairs 
As  I  do  still,  and  climbed  as  many  ladders, 
It  would  be  better  for  you.     Pray  sit  down. 
Your  idle  and  luxurious  way  of  living 
Will  one  day  take  your  breath  away  entirely, 
And  you  will  never  find  it. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Well,  what  then  ? 

That  would  be  better,  in  my  apprehension, 
Than  falling  from  a  scaffold. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

That  was  nothing. 

It  did  not  kill  me  ;  only  lamed  me  slightly  ; 
I  am  quite  well  again. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

But  why,  dear  Master, 
Why  do  you  live  so  high  up  in  your  house, 
When  you  could  live  below  and  have  a  garden, 
As  I  do  ? 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

From  this  window  I  can  look 
On  many  gardens  ;  o'er  the  city  roofs 
See  the  Campagna  and  the  Alban  hills : 
And  all  are  mine. 


91 


FHA   SEBASTIANO. 

Can  you  sit  down  in  them, 
On  summer  afternoons,  and  play  the  lute, 
Or  sing,  or  sleep  the  time  away  ? 


MICHAEL    AXGELO. 


I  never 

Sleep  in  the  day-time  ;  scarcely  sleep  at  night. 
I  have  not  time.     Did  you  meet  Benvenuto 
As  you  came  up  the  stair  ? 


92  MICHAEL  ANGEL  0. 

FBA    SEBASTIANO. 

He  ran  against  me 

On  the  first  landing,  going  at  full  speed  ; 
Dressed  like  the  Spanish  captain  in  a  play, 
With  his  long  rapier  and  his  short  red  cloak. 
Why  hurry  through  the  world  at  such  a  pace  ? 
Life  will  not  be  too  long. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

It  is  his  nature,  — 

A  restless  spirit,  that  consumes  itself 
With  useless  agitations.     He  o'erleaps 
The  goal  he  aims  at.     Patience  is  a  plant 
That  grows  not  in  all  gardens.     You  are  made 
Of  quite  another  clay. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

And  thank  God  for  it. 

And  now,  being  somewhat  rested,  I  will  tell  you 
Why  I  have  climbed  these  formidable  stairs. 
I  have  a  friend,  Francesco  Berni,  here, 
A  very  charming  poet  and  companion, 
Who  greatly  honors  you  and  all  your  doings, 
And  you  must  sup  with  us. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Not  I,  indeed. 

I  know  too  well  what  artists'  suppers  are. 
You  must  excuse  me. 

FEA   SEBASTIANO. 

I  will  not  excuse  you. 

You  need  repose  from  your  incessant  work  ; 
Some  recreation,  some  bright  hours  of  pleasure. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  93 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

To  me,  what  you  and  other  men  call  pleasure 
Is  only  pain.     Work  is  my  recreation, 
The  play  of  faculty  ;  a  delight  like  that 
Which  a  bird  feels  in  flying,  or  a  fish 
In  darting  through  the  water,  —  nothing  more 
I  cannot  go.     The  Sibylline  leaves  of  life 
Grow  precious  now,  when  only  few  remain. 
I  cannot  go. 

FRA   SEBASTIAXO. 

Berni,  perhaps,  will  read 
A  canto  of  the  Orlando  Inamorato. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

That  is  another  reason  for  not  going. 
If  aught  is  tedious  and  intolerable, 
It  is  a  poet  reading  his  own  verses. 

FRA    SEBAST1AXO. 

Berni  thinks  somewhat  better  of  your  verses 
Than  you  of  his.     He  says  that  you  speak  things, 
And  other  poets  words.     So,  pray  you,  come. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

If  it  were  now  the  Improvisatore, 

Luigi  Pulci,  whom  I  used  to  hear 

With  Benvenuto,  in  the  streets  of  Florence, 

I  might  be  tempted.     I  was  younger  then, 

And  singing  in  the  open  air  was  pleasant. 

FRA    SEBASTIAXO. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  here,  named  Rabelais, 
Once  a  Franciscan  friar,  and  now  a  doctor, 


94    '  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

And  secretary  to  the  embassy  : 

A  learned  man,  who  speaks  all  languages, 

And  wittiest  of  men  ;  who  wrote  a  book 

Of  the  Adventures  of  Gargantua, 

So  full  of  strange  conceits  one  roars  with  laughter 

At  every  page  ;  a  jovial  boon-companion 

And  lover  of  much  wine.     He  too  is  coming. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Then  you  will  not  want  me,  who  am  not  witty, 
And  have  no  sense  of  mirth,  and  love  not  wine. 
I  should  be  like  a  dead  man  at  your  banquet. 
Why  should  I  seek  this  Frenchman,  Rabelais  ? 
And  wherefore  go  to  hear  Francesco  Berni, 
When  I  have  Dante  Alighieri  here, 
The  greatest  of  all  poets  ? 

PRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  the  dullest ; 
And  only  to  be  read  in  episodes. 
His  day  is  past.     Petrarca  is  our  poet. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Petrarca  is  for  women  and  for  lovers, 

And  for  those  soft  Abati,  who  delight 

To  wander  down  long  garden  walks  in  summer, 

Tinkling  their  little  sonnets  all  day  long, 

As  lap-dogs  do  their  bells. 

FEA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  love  Petrarca. 

How  sweetly  of  his  absent  love  he  sings, 
When  journeying  in  the  forest  of  Ardennes  ! 
"  I  seem  to  hear  her,  hearing  the  boughs  and  breezes 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  95 

And  leaves  and  birds  lamenting,  and  the  waters 
Murmuring  flee  along  the  verdant  herbage." 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Enough.     It  is  all  seeming,  and  no  being. 
If  you  would  know  how  a  man  speaks  in  earnest, 
Read  here  this  passage,  where  St.  Peter  thunders 
In  Paradise  against  degenerate  Popes 
And  the  corruptions  of  the  church,  till  all 
The  heaven  about  him  blushes  like  a  sunset. 
I  beg  you  to  take  note  of  what  he  says 
About  the  Papal  seals,  for  that  concerns 
Your  office  and  yourself. 

FKA  SEBASTIAXO,  reading. 

Is  this  the  passage  ? 
"  Nor  I  be  made  the  figure  of  a  seal 
To  privileges  venal  and  mendacious  ; 
Whereat  I  often  redden  and  flash  with  fire  !  "  — 
That  is  not  poetry. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

What  is  it,  then  ? 

FKA    SEBASTIAXO. 

Vituperation  ;  gall  that  might  have  spirted 
From  Aretino's  pen. 

MICHAEL   AXGELO. 

Name  not  that  man  ! 
A  profligate,  whom  your  Francesco  Berni 
Describes  as  having  one  foot  in  the  brothel 
And  the  other  in  the  hospital ;  who  lives 
By  flattering  or  maligning,  as  best  serves 


96  MICHAEL  ANGEL  0, 


His  purpose  at  the  time.     He  writes  to  me 
With  easy  arrogance  of  my  Last  Judgment, 
In  such  familiar  tone  that  one  would  say 
The  great  event  already  had  occurred, 
And  he  was  present,  and  from  observation 
Informed  me  how  the  picture  should  be  painted. 

FEA    SEBASTIANO. 

What  unassuming,  unobtrusive  men 
These  critics  are  !     Now,  to  have  Aretino 
Aiming  his  shafts  at  you  brings  back  to  mind 
The  Gascon  archers  in  the  square  of  Milan, 
Shooting  their  arrows  at  Duke  Sforza's  statue, 
By  Leonardo,  and  the  foolish  rabble 
Of  envious  Florentines,  that  at  your  David 
Threw  stones  at  night.     But  Aretino  praised  you, 

MICHAEL    A1STGELO. 

His  praises  were  ironical.     He  knows 
How  to  use  wrords  as  weapons,  and  to  wound 
While  seeming  to  defend.     But  look,  Bastiano, 
See  how  the  setting  sun  lights  up  that  picture  ! 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  97 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

My  portrait  of  Yittoria  Colonna. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

It  makes  her  look  as  she  will  look  hereafter, 
When  she  becomes  a  saint ! 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

A  noble  woman ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Ah,  these  old  hands  can  fashion  fairer  shapes 
In  marble,  and  can  paint  diviner  pictures, 
Since  I  have  known  her. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

And  you  like  this  picture  ; 
And  yet  it  is  in  oils,  which  you  detest. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

When  that  barbarian  Jan  Van  Eyck  discovered 

The  use  of  oil  in  painting,  he  degraded 

His  art  into  a  handicraft,  and  made  it 

Sign-painting,  merely,  for  a  country  inn 

Or  wayside  wine -shop.     T  is  an  art  for  women, 

Or  for  such  leisurely  and  idle  people 

As  you,  Fra  Bastiano.     Nature  paints  not 

In  oils,  but  frescoes  the  great  dome  of  heaven 

With  sunsets,  and  the  lovely  forms  of  clouds 

And  flying  vapors. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

And  how  soon  they  fade ! 
Behold  yon  line  of  roofs  and  belfries  painted 


98  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Upon  the  golden  background  of  the  sky, 
Like  a  Byzantine  picture,  or  a  portrait 
Of  Cimabue.     See  how  hard  the  outline, 
Sharp-cut  and  clear,  not  rounded  into  shadow. 
Yet  that  is  nature. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

She  is  always  right. 

The  picture  that  approaches  sculpture  nearest 
Is  the  best  picture. 

FRA   SEBASTIANO. 

Leonardo  thinks 

The  open  air  too  bright.     We  ought  to  paint 
As  if  the  sun  were  shining  through  a  mist. 
'T  is  easier  done  in  oil  than  in  distemper. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Do  not  revive  again  the  old  dispute  ; 

I  have  an  excellent  memory  for  forgetting, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  99 

But  I  still  feel  the  hurt.     Wounds  are  not  healed 
By  the  unbending  of  the  bow  that  made  them. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

So  say  Petrarca  and  the  ancient  proverb. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

But  that  is  past.     Now  I  am  angry  with  you, 
Not  that  you  paint  in  oils,  but  that,  grown  fat 
And  indolent,  you  do  not  paint  at  all. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Why  should  I  paint  ?     Why  should  I  toil  and  sweat, 
Who  now  am  rich  enough  to  live  at  ease, 
And  take  my  pleasure  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

When  Pope  Leo  died, 
He  who  had  been  so  lavish  of  the  wealth 
His  predecessors  left  him,  who  received 
A  basket  of  gold-pieces  every  morning, 
Which  every  night  was  empty,  left  behind 
Hardly  enough  to  pay  his  funeral. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

I  care  for  banquets,  not  for  funerals, 

As  did  his  Holiness.     I  have  forbidden 

All  tapers  at  my  burial,  and  procession 

Of  priests  and  friars  and  monks  ;  and  have  provided 

The  cost  thereof  be  given  to  the  poor  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

You  have  done  wisely,  but  of  that  I  speak  not. 
Ghiberti  left  behind  him  wealth  and  children  ; 


100  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

But  who  to-day  would  know  that  he  had  lived, 

If  he  had  never  made  those  gates  of  bronze 

In  the  old  Baptistery,  —  those  gates  of  bronze, 

Worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

His  wealth  is  scattered  to  the  winds  ;  his  children 

Are  long  since  dead  ;  but  those  celestial  gates 

Survive,  and  keep  his  name  and  memory  green. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

But  why  should  I  fatigue  myself  ?     I  think 
That  all  things  it  is  possible  to  paint 
Have  been  already  painted  ;  and  if  not, 
Why,  there  are  painters  in  the  world  at  present 
Who  can  accomplish  more  in  two  short  months 
Than  I  could  in  two  years ;  so  it  is  well 
That  some  one  is  contented  to  do  nothing, 
And  leave  the  field  to  others. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

O  blasphemer  ! 

Not  without  reason  do  the  people  call  you 
Sebastian  del  Piombo,  for  the  lead 
Of  all  the  Papal  bulls  is  heavy  upon  you, 
And  wraps  you  like  a  shroud. 

PRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Misericordia  ! 

Sharp  is  the  vinegar  of  sweet  wine,  and  sharp 
The  words  you  speak,  because  the  heart  within  you 
Is  sweet  unto  the  core. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

How  changed  you  are 
From  the  Sebastiano  I  once  knew, 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  101 

When  poor,  laborious,  emulous  to  excel, 
You  strove  in  rivalry  with  Badassare 
And  Raphael  Sanzio. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Raphael  is  dead ; 

He  is  but  dust  and  ashes  in  his  grave, 
While  I  am  living  and  enjoying  life, 
And  so  am  victor.     One  live  Pope  is  worth 
A  dozen  dead  ones. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Raphael  is  not  dead  ; 

He  doth  but  sleep ;  for  how  can  he  be  dead 
Who  lives  immortal  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 
He  only  drank  the  precious  wine  of  youth, 
The  outbreak  of  the  grapes,  before  the  vintage 
Was  trodden  to  bitterness  by  the  feet  of  men. 
The  gods  have  given  him  sleep.     We  never  were 
Nor  could  be  foes,  although  our  followers, 
Who  are  distorted  shadows  of  ourselves, 
Have  striven  to  make  us  so  ;  but  each  one  worked 
Unconsciously  upon  the  other's  thoughts, 
Both  giving  and  receiving.     He  perchance 
Caught  strength  from  me,  and  I  some  greater  sweetness 
And  tenderness  from  his  more  gentle  nature. 
I  have  but  words  of  praise  and  admiration 
For  his  great  genius ;  and  the  world  is  fairer 
That  he  lived  in  it. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

We  at  least  are  friends  ; 
So  come  with  me. 


102  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

No,  no  ;  I  am  best  pleased 

When  I  'm  not  asked  to  banquets.     I  have  reached 
A  time  of  life  when  daily  walks  are  shortened, 
And  even  the  houses  of  our  dearest  friends, 
That  used  to  be  so  near,  seem  far  away. 

FRA    SEBASTIANO. 

Then  we  must  sup  without  you.     We  shall  laugh 
At  those  who  toil  for  fame,  and  make  their  lives 
A  tedious  martyrdom,  that  they  may  live 
A  little  longer  in  the  mouths  of  men ! 
And  so,  good-night. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Good-night,  my  Era  Bastiano. 

[Returning  to  his  work, 

How  will  men  speak  of  me  when  I  am  gone, 

When  all  this  colorless,  sad  life  is  ended, 

And  I  am  dust  ?     They  will  remember  only 

The  wrinkled  forehead,  the  marred  countenance, 

The  rudeness  of  my  speech,  and  my  rough  manners, 

And  never  dream  that  underneath  them  all 

There  was  a  woman's  heart  of  tenderness. 

They  will  not  know  the  sr    3t  of  my  life, 

Locked  up  in  silence,  or  1       vaguely  hinted 

In  uncouth  rhymes,  that  may  perchance  survive 

Some  little  space  in  memories  of  men ! 

Each  one  performs  his  life-work,  and  then  leaves  it ; 

Those  that  come  after  him  will  estimate 

His  influence  on  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


103 


V. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO   AND  TITIAN  :   PALAZZO  BELVEDERE. 

TITIAN'S  studio.     A  painting  of  Danae  with  a  curtain  before  it.     TITIAN,  MICHAKL  AXGELO, 

and  GIORGIO  VASABI. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

So  you  have  left  at  last  your  still  lagoons, 
Your  City  of  Silence  floating  in  the  sea, 
And  come  to  us  in  Rome. 


TITIAN. 

I  come  to  learn, 

But  I  have  come  too  late.     I  should  have  seen 
Rome  in  my  youth,  when  all  my  mind  was  open 
To  new  impressions.     Our  Vasari  here 
Leads  me  about,  a  blind  man,  groping  darkly 
Among  the  marvels  of  the  past.     I  touch  them, 
But  do  not  see  them. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

There  are  things  in  Rome 


104  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

That  one  might  walk  bare-footed  here  from  Venice 
But  to  see  once,  and  then  to  die  content. 

TITIAN. 

I  must  confess  that  these  majestic  ruins 
Oppress  me  with  their  gloom.     I  feel  as  one 
Who  in  the  twilight  stumbles  among  tombs, 
And  cannot  read  the  inscriptions  carved  upon  them. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  felt  so  once  ;  but  I  have  grown  familiar 
With  desolation,  and  it  has  become 
No  more  a  pain  to  me,  but  a  delight. 

TITIAN. 

I  could  not  live  here.     I  must  have  the  sea, 

And  the  sea-mist,  with  sunshine  interwoven 

Like  cloth  of  gold ;  must  have  beneath  my  windows 

The  laughter  of  the  waves,  and  at  my  door 

Their  pattering  footsteps,  or  I  am  not  happy. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Then  tell  me  of  your  city  in  the  sea, 
Paved  with  red  basalt  of  the  Paduan  hills. 
Tell  me  of  art  in  Venice.     Three  great  names, 
Giorgione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto, 
Illustrate  your  Venetian  school,  and  send 
A  challenge  to  the  world.     The  first  is  dead, 
But  Tintoretto  lives. 

TITIAN. 

And  paints  with  fire, 

Sudden  and  splendid,  as  the  lightning  paints 
The  cloudy  vault  of  heaven. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


105 


GIORGIO. 

Does  he  still  keep 

Above  his  door  the  arrogant  inscription 
That  once  was  painted  there,  —  "  The  color  of  Titian, 
With  the  design  of  Michael  Angelo  "  ? 

TITIAN. 

Indeed,  I  know  not.     T  was  a  foolish  boast, 
And  does  no  harm  to  any  but  himself. 
Perhaps  he  has  grown  wiser. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

When  you  two 

Are  gone,  who  is  there  that  remains  behind 
To  seize  the  pencil  falling  from  your  fingers  ? 


GIORGIO. 

Oh,  there  arc  many  hands  upraised  already 

To  clutch  at  such  a  pri/e,  which  hardly  wait 

For  death  to  loose  your  grasp,  —  a  hundred  of  them 

Schiavone,  Bonifa/io,  Campagnola, 


106  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Moretto,  and  Moroni ;  who  can  count  them, 
Or  measure  their  ambition  ? 


TITIAN. 

When  we  are  gone, 
The  generation  that  comes  after  us 
Will  have  far  other  thoughts  than  ours.     Our  ruins 
Will  serve  to  build  their  palaces  or  tombs. 
They  will  possess  the  world  that  we  think  ours, 
And  fashion  it  far  otherwise. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  hear 

Your  son  Orazio  and  your  nephew  Marco 
Mentioned  with  honor. 

TITIAN. 

Ay,  brave  lads,  brave  lads. 

But  time  will  show.     There  is  a  youth  in  Venice, 
One  Paul  Cagliari,  called  the  Veronese, 
Still  a  mere  stripling,  but  of  such  rare  promise 
That  we  must  guard  our  laurels,  or  may  lose  them. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

These  are  good  tidings  ;  for  I  sometimes  fear 
That,  when  we  die,  with  us  all  art  will  die. 
'T  is  but  a  fancy.     Nature  will  provide 
Others  to  take  our  places.     I  rejoice 
To  see  the  young  spring  forward  in  the  race, 
Eager  as  we  were,  and  as  full  of  hope 
And  the  sublime  audacity  of  youth. 

TITIAN. 

Men  die  and  are  forgotten.     The  great  world 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  109 

Goes  on  the  same.     Among  the  myriads 

Of  men  that  live,  or  have  lived,  or  shall  live, 

What  is  a  single  life,  or  thine  or  mine, 

That  we  should  think  all  nature  would  stand  still 

If  we  were  gone  ?     We  must  make  room  for  others. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

And  now,  Maestro,  pray  unveil  your  picture 
Of  Danae,  of  which  I  hear  such  praise. 

TITIAN,  drawing  back  the  curtain. 
What  think  you  ? 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

That  Acrisius  did  well 
To  lock  such  beauty  in  a  brazen  tower, 
And  hide  it  from  all  eyes. 


TITIAN. 

The  model  truly 


Was  beautiful. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  more,  that  you  were  present, 
And  saw  the  showery  Jove  from  high  Olympus 
Descend  in  all  his  splendor. 

TITIAN. 

From  your  lips 
Such  words  are  full  of  sweetness. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

You  have  caught 
These  golden  hues  from  your  Venetian  sunsets. 


110  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

TITIAN. 

Possibly. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Or  from  sunshine  through  a  shower 
On  the  lagoons,  or  the  broad  Adriatic. 
Nature  reveals  herself  in  all  our  arts. 
The  pavements  and  the  palaces  of  cities 
Hint  at  the  nature  of  the  neighboring  hills. 
Red  lavas  from  the  Euganean  quarries 
Of  Padua  pave  your  streets  ;  your  palaces 
Are  the  white  stones  of  Istria,  and  gleam 
Reflected  in  your  waters  and  your  pictures. 
And  thus  the  works  of  every  artist  show 
Something  of  his  surroundings  and  his  habits. 
The  uttermost  that  can  be  reached  by  color 
Is  here  accomplished.     Warmth  and  light  and  softness 
Mingle  together.     Never  yet  was  flesh 
Painted  by  hand  of  artist,  dead  or  living, 
With  such  divine  perfection. 

TITIAN. 

I  am  grateful 

For  so  much  praise  from  you,  who  are  a  master  ; 
While  mostly  those  who  praise  and  those  who  blame 
Know  nothing  of  the  matter,  so  that  mainly 
Their  censure  sounds  like  praise,  their  praise  like  censure 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Wonderful !  wonderful !     The  charm  of  color 
Fascinates  me  the  more  that  in  myself 
The  gift  is  wanting.     I  am  not  a  painter. 

GIORGIO. 
Messer  Michele,  all  the  arts  are  yours, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


Ill 


Not  one  alone  ;  and  therefore  I  may  venture 
To  put  a  question  to  you. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Well,  speak  on. 


GIOIIGIO. 


Two  nephews  of  the  Cardinal  Farnese 
Have  made  me  umpire  in  dispute  between  them 
Which  is  the  greater  of  the  sister  arts, 
Painting  or  sculpture.     Solve  for  me  the  doubt. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Sculpture  and  painting  have  a  common  goal, 
And  whosoever  would  attain  to  it, 
Whichever  path  he  take,  will  find  that  goal 
Equally  hard  to  reach. 


G10KG10. 

No  doubt,  no  doubt ; 
But  you  evade  the  question. 


112  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

When  I  stand 

In  presence  of  this  picture,  I  concede 
That  painting  has  attained  its  uttermost ; 
But  in  the  presence  of  my  sculptured  figures 
I  feel  that  my  conception  soars  beyond 
All  limit  I  have  reached. 

GIORGIO. 

You  still  evade  me. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Giorgio  Yasari,  I  have  often  said 

That  I  account  that  painting  as  the  best 

Which  most  resembles  sculpture.     Here  before  us 

We  have  the  proof.     Behold  those  rounded  limbs  ! 

How  from  the  canvas  they  detach  themselves, 

Till  they  deceive  the  eye,  and  one  would  say, 

It  is  a  statue  with  a  screen  behind  it ! 

TITIAN. 

Signori,  pardon  me  ;  but  all  such  questions 
Seem  to  me  idle. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Idle  as  the  wind. 

And  now,  Maestro,  I  will  say  once  more 
How  admirable  I  esteem  your  work, 
And  leave  you,  without  further  interruption. 

TITIAN. 

Your  friendly  visit  hath  much  honored  me. 

GIORGIO. 
Farewell. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  113 

MICHAEL    ANGELO    to    GIORGIO,    f/OlilfJ  out. 

If  the  Venetian  painters  knew 
But  half  as  much  of  drawing  as  of  color, 
They  would  indeed  work  miracles  in  art, 
And  the  world  see  what  it  hath  never  seen. 


VI. 

PALAZZO   CESARINI. 

VITTORIA  COLOXXA,  seated  in  an  ami,  chair;   JULIA  GOXZAGA,  stamliny  near  her. 

JULIA. 

It  grieves  me  that  I  find  you  still  so  weak 
And  suffering. 

VITTORIA. 

No,  not  suffering  ;  only  dying. 
Death  is  the  dullness  that  precedes  the  dawn ; 
We  shudder  for  a  moment,  then  awake 
In  the  broad  sunshine  of  the  other  life. 
I  am  a  shadow,  merely,  and  these  hands, 
These  cheeks,  these  eyes,  these  tresses  that  my  husband 
Once  thought  so  beautiful,  and  I  was  proud  of 
Because  he  thought  them  so,  are  faded  quite,  — 
All  beauty  gone  from  them. 

JULIA. 

Ah,  no,  not  that. 
Paler  you  are,  but  not  less  beautiful. 

VITTORIA. 

Hand  me  the  mirror.     I  would  fain  behold 
What  change  comes  o'er  our  features  when  we  die. 

8 


114  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Thank  you.     And  now  sit  down  beside  me  here. 
How  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come  to-day, 
Above  all  other  days,  and  at  the  hour 
When  most  I  need  you  ! 

JULIA. 

Do  you  ever  need  me  ? 

VITTOKIA. 

Always,  and  most  of  all  to-day  and  now. 
Do  you  remember,  Julia,  when  we  walked, 
One  afternoon,  upon  the  castle  terrace 
At  Ischia,  on  the  day  before  you  left  me  ? 


JULIA. 

Well  I  remember ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
Something  unreal,  that  has  never  been,  — 
Something  that  I  have  read  of  in  a  book, 
Or  heard  of  some  one  else. 

VITTORIA. 

Ten  years  and  more 

Have  passed  since  then  ;  and  many  things  have  happened 
In  those  ten  years,  and  many  friends  have  died  : 
Marco  Flaminio,  whom  we  all  admired 
And  loved  as  our  Catullus  ;  dear  Yaldesso, 
The  noble  champion  of  free  thought  and  speech ; 
And  Cardinal  Ippolito,  your  friend. 

JULIA. 

Oh,  do  not  speak  of  him !     His  sudden  death 
O'ercomes  me  now,  as  it  o'ercame  me  then. 
Let  me  forget  it ;  for  my  memory 
Serves  me  too  often  as  an  unkind  friend, 


MICHAEL    ANGRLO. 

And  I  remember  things  I  would  forget, 
While  I  forget  the  things  I  would  remember. 

VITTORIA. 

Forgive  me  ;  I  will  speak  of  him  no  more. 
The  good  Fra  Bernardino  has  departed, 
Has  fled  from  Italy,  and  crossed  the  Alps, 
Fearing  Caraffa's  wrath,  because  he  taught 
That  He  who  made  us  all  without  our  help 
Could  also  save  us  without  aid  of  ours. 
Renee  of  France,  the  Duchess  of  Ferrara, 
That  Lily  of  the  Loire,  is  bowed  by  winds 
That  blow  from  Rome  ;  Olympia  Morata 
Banished  from  court  because  of  this  new  doctrine. 
Therefore  be  cautious.     Keep  your  secret  thought 
Locked  in  your  breast. 

JULIA. 

I  will  be  very  prudent. 
But  speak  no  more,  I  pray  ;  it  wearies  you. 

VITTORIA. 
Yes,  I  am  very  weary.     Read  to  me. 

JULIA. 

Most  willingly.     What  shall  I  read  ? 

VITTORIA. 

Petrarca's 

Triumph  of  Death.     The  book  lies  on  the  table  ; 
Beside  the  casket  there.     Read  where  you  find 
The  leaf  turned  down.     T  was  there  I  left  off  reading. 


116  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

JULIA,  reads. 
"  Not  as  a  flame  that  by  some  force  is  spent, 

But  one  that  of  itself  consumeth  quite, 

Departed  hence  in  peace  the  soul  content, 
In  fashion  of  a  soft  and  lucent  light 

Whose  nutriment  by  slow  gradation  goes, 

Keeping  until  the  end  its  lustre  bright. 
Not  pale,  but  whiter  than  the  sheet  of  snows 

That  without  wind  on  some  fair  hill-top  flies, 

Her  weary  body  seemed  to  find  repose. 
Like  a  sweet  slumber  in  her  lovely  eyes, 

When  now  the  spirit  Avas  no  longer  there, 

Was  Avhat  is  dying  called  by  the  unwise. 
E'en  Death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seemed  fair."  — 

Is  it  of  Laura  that  he  here  is  speaking  ? 

She  doth  not  ansAver,  yet  is  not  asleep ; 

Her  eyes  are  full  of  light  and  fixed  on  something 

Above  her  in  the  air.     I  can  see  naught 

Except  the  painted  angels  on  the  ceiling. 

Yittoria  !  speak  !     What  is  it  ?     AnsAver  me  !  - 

She  only  smiles,  and  stretches  out  her  hands. 

\_The  mirror  falls  and  breaks. 
VITTORIA. 

Not  disobedient  to  the  heavenly  vision  ! 

Pescara  !  my  Pescara  !  [Dies. 

JULIA. 

Holy  Virgin ! 
Her  body  sinks  together,  —  she  is  dead  ! 

[Kneels,  and  hides  her  face  in  Vittoria's  lap. 

Enter  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
JULIA. 

Hush  !  make  no  noise» 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  119 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

How  is  she  ? 

JULIA. 

Never  better. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Then  she  is  dead  ! 

JULIA. 

Alas  !  yes,  she  is  dead ! 
Even  death  itself  in  her  fair  face  seems  fair. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

How  wonderful !     The  light  upon  her  face 
Shines  from  the  windows  of  another  world. 
Saints  only  have  such  faces.     Holy  angels  ! 
Bear  her  like  sainted  Catherine  to  her  rest ! 

[Kisses  Vlttorias  hand. 


•PARTTHlRD-jijg 


PART    THIRD. 
I. 

MONOLOGUE  :   MACELLO   I)E'   CORVI. 

A  room  in  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  house.     MICHAEL  AXGELO  standiny  before  a  model  of  St.  Peter's. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

BETTER  than  thou  I  cannot,  Brunellcschi, 

And  less  than  thou  I  will  not !     If  the  thought 

Could,  like  a  windlass,  lift  the  ponderous  stones, 

And  swing  them  to  their  places  ;  if  a  breath 

Could  blow  this  rounded  dome  into  the  air, 

As  if  it  were  a  bubble,  and  these  statues 

Spring  at  a  signal  to  their  sacred  stations, 

As  sentinels  mount  guard  upon  a  Avail, 

Then  were  my  task  completed.     Now,  alas  ! 

Naught  am  I  but  a  Saint  Sebaldus,  holding 

Upon  his  hand  the  model  of  a  church, 

As  German  artists  paint  him  ;  and  what  years, 

What  weary  years,  must  drag  themselves  along, 

Ere  this  be  turned  to  stone  !     What  hindrances 

Must  block  the  way  ;  what  idle  interferences 

Of  Cardinals  and  Canons  of  St.  Peter's, 

Who  nothing  know  of  art  beyond  the  color 

Of  cloaks  and  stockings,  nor  of  any  building 

Save  that  of  their  own  fortunes  !     And  what  then  ? 

I  must  then  the  short-coming  of  my  means 

Piece  out  by  stepping  forward,  as  the  Spartan 

Was  told  to  add  a  step  to  his  short  sword.  |>i  ixnue. 

And  is  Fra  Bastian  dead  ?     Is  all  that  light 
Gone  out,  that  sunshine  darkened  ;  all  that  music 


124  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

And  merriment,  that  used  to  make  our  lives 

Less  melancholy,  swallowed  up  in  silence, 

Like  madrigals  sung  in  the  street  at  night 

By  passing  revellers  ?     It  is  strange  indeed 

That  he  should  die  before  me.     'T  is  against 

The  law  of  nature  that  the  young  should  die, 

And  the  old  live ;  unless  it  be  that  some 

Have  long  been  dead  who  think  themselves  alive, 

Because  not  buried.     Well,  what  matters  it, 

Since  now  that  greater  light,  that  was  my  sun, 

Is  set,  and  all  is  darkness,  all  is  darkness ! 

Death's  lightnings  strike  to  right  and  left  of  me, 

And,  like  a  ruined  wall,  the  world  around  me 

Crumbles  away,  and  I  am  left  alone. 

I  have  no  friends,  and  want  none.     My  own  thoughts 

Are  now  my  sole  companions,  —  thoughts  of  her, 

That  like  a  benediction  from  the  skies 

Come  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  soothe  me. 

When  men  are  old,  the  incessant  thought  of  Death 

Follows  them  like  their  shadow  ;  sits  with  them 

At  every  meal ;  sleeps  with  them  when  they  sleep  ; 

And  when  they  wake  already  is  awake, 

And  standing  by  their  bedside.     Then,  what  folly 

It  is  in  us  to  make  an  enemy 

Of  this  importunate  follower,  not  a  friend ! 

To  me  a  friend,  and  not  an  enemy, 

Has  he  become  since  all  my  friends  are  dead. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  125 

II. 

VIGNA   1)1    PAPA   GIULIO. 

POPE  JULIUS  III.  seated  by  the  Fountain  of  Ac^ua  t'eryiius,  surrounded  by  Cardinals. 

JULIUS. 

Tell  me,  why  is  it  ye  are  discontent, 
You,  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello, 
With  Michael  Angclo  ?     What  has  he  done, 
Or  left  undone,  that  ye  are  set  against  him  ? 
When  one  Pope  dies,  another  is  soon  made  ; 
And  I  can  make  a  dozen  Cardinals, 
But  cannot  make  one  Michael  Angelo. 

CARDINAL    SALVIATI. 

Your  Holiness,  we  are  not  set  against  him  ; 
We  but  deplore  his  incapacity. 
He  is  too  old. 

JULIUS. 

You,  Cardinal  Salviati, 
Are  an  old  man.  Are  you  incapable  ? 
T  is  the  old  ox  that  draws  the  straightest  furrow. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

Your  Holiness  remembers  he  was  charged 
With  the  repairs  upon  St.  Mary's  bridge ; 
Made  cofferdams,  and  heaped  up  load  on  load 
Of  timber  and  travertine  ;  and  yet  for  years 
The  bridge  remained  unfinished,  till  we  gave  it 
To  Baccio  Bigio. 

JULIUS. 
Always  Baccio  Bigio  ! 


126  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Is  there  no  other  architect  on  earth  ? 

Was  it  not  he  that  sometime  had  in  charge 

The  harbor  of  Ancona  ? 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

Ay,  the  same. 

JULIUS. 

Then  let  me  tell  you  that  your  Baccio  Bigio 

Did  greater  damage  in  a  single  day 

To  that  fair  harbor  than  the  sea  had  done 

Or  would  do  in  ten  years.     And  him  you  think 

To  put  in  place  of  Michael  Angelo, 

In  building  the  Basilica  of  St.  Peter ! 

The  ass  that  thinks  himself  a  stag  discovers 

His  error  when  he  comes  to  leap  the  ditch. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

He  does  not  build ;  he  but  demolishes 
The  labors  of  Bramante  and  San  Gallo. 

JULIUS. 

Only  to  build  more  grandly. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

But  time  passes  : 

Year  after  year  goes  by,  and  yet  the  work 
Is  not  completed.     Michael  Angelo 
Is  a  great  sculptor,  but  no  architect. 
His  plans  are  faulty. 

JULIUS. 

1  have  seen  his  model, 
And  have  approved  it.     But  here  comes  the  artist, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Beware  of  him.     lie  may  make  Persians  of  you, 
To  carry  burdens  on  your  backs  forever. 

The  same :  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 
JULIUS. 

Come  forward,  dear  Maestro  !     In  these  gardens 
All  ceremonies  of  our  court  are  banished. 
Sit  down  beside  me  here. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO,  sitting  down. 

How  graciously 

Your  Holiness  commiserates  old  age 
And  its  infirmities  ! 

JULIUS. 

Say  its  privileges. 

Art  I  respect.     The  building  of  this  palace 
And  laying  out  these  pleasant  garden  walks 
Are  my  delight,  and  if  I  have  not  asked 
Your  aid  in  this,  it  is  that  I  forbear 
To  lay  new  burdens  on  you  at  an  age 
When  you  need  rest.     Here  I  escape  from  Rome 
To  be  at  peace.     The  tumult  of  the  city 
Scarce  reaches  here. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

How  beautiful  it  is, 
And  quiet  almost  as  a  hermitage ! 

JULIUS. 

We  live  as  hermits  here ;  and  from  these  heights 
O'erlook  all  Rome,  and  see  the  yellow  Tiber 
Cleaving  in  twain  the  city,  like  a  sword, 
As  far  below  there  as  St.  Mary's  bridge. 
What  think  you  of  that  bridge  ? 


128  MICHAEL  ANGELO, 

MICHAEL    ANGELO 

I  would  advise 

Your  Holiness  not  to  cross  it,  or  not  often ; 
It  is  not  safe. 

JULIUS. 

It  was  repaired  of  late. 

MICHAEL    A1STGELO. 

Some  morning  you  will  look  for  it  in  vain  ; 
It  will  be  gone.  The  current  of  the  river 
Is  undermining  it. 

JULIUS. 

But  you  repaired  it. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  strengthened  all  its  piers,  and  paved  its  road 
With  travertine.     He  who  came  after  me 
Removed  the  stone,  and  sold  it,  and  filled  in 
The  space  with  gravel. 

JULIUS. 

Cardinal  Salviati 

And  Cardinal  Marcello,  do  you  listen  ? 
This  is  your  famous  Nanni  Baccio  Bigio. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO,  aside. 

There  is  some  mystery  here.     These  Cardinals 
Stand  lowering  at  me  with  unfriendly  eyes. 

JULIUS. 

Now  let  us  come  to  what  concerns  us  more 

Than  bridge  or  gardens.     Some  complaints  are  made 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  129 

Concerning  the  Three  Chapels  in  St.  Peter's  ; 
Certain  supposed  defects  or  imperfections, 
You  doubtless  can  explain. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

This  is  no  longer 

The  golden  age  of  art.     Men  have  become 
Iconoclasts  and  critics.     They  delight  not 
In  what  an  artist  does,  but  set  themselves 
To  censure  what  they  do  not  comprehend. 
You  will  not  see  them  bearing  a  Madonna 
Of  Cimabue  to  the  church  in  triumph, 
But  tearing  down  the  statue  of  a  Pope 
To  cast  it  into  cannon.     Who  are  they 
That  bring  complaints  against  me  ? 

JULIUS. 

Deputies 

Of  the  commissioners  ;  and  they  complain 
Of  insufficient  light  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Your  Holiness,  the  insufficient  light 

Is  somewhere  else,  and  not  in  the  Three  Chapels. 

Who  are  the  deputies  that  make  complaint  ? 

JULIUS. 

The  Cardinals  Salviati  and  Marcello. 
Here  present. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO, 

With  permission,  Monsignori 
What  is  it  ye  complain  of  ? 


130  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

We  regret 

You  have  departed  from  Bramante's  plan, 
And  from  San  Gallo's. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Since  the  ancient  time 
No  greater  architect  has  lived  on  earth 
Than  Lazzari  Bramante.     His  design, 
Without  confusion,  simple,  clear,  well-lighted, 
Merits  all  praise,  and  to  depart  from  it 
Would  be  departing  from  the  truth.     San  Gallo, 
Building  about  with  columns,  took  all  light 
Out  of  this  plan  ;  left  in  the  choir  dark  corners 
For  infinite  ribaldries,  and  lurking  places 
For  rogues  and  robbers ;  so  that  when  the  church 
Was  shut  at  night,  not  five  and  twenty  men 
Could  find  them  out.     It  was  San  Gallo,  then, 
That  left  the  church  in  darkness,  and  not  I. 

CARDINAL    MARCELLO. 

Excuse  me ;  but  in  each  of  the  Three  Chapels 
Is  but  a  single  window. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Monsignore, 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  in  the  vaulting 
Above  there  are  to  go  three  other  windows. 

CARDINAL  SAL VI ATI. 

How  shquld  we  know  ?     You  never  told  us  of  it. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  neither  am  obliged,  nor  will  I  be, 


-          - 

^   _ 





i 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  133 

To  tell  your  Eminence  or  any  other 
What  I  intend  or  ought  to  do.     Your  office 
Is  to  provide  the  means,  and  see  that  thieves 
Do  not  lay  hands  upon  them.     The  designs 
Must  all  be  left  to  me. 

CARDINAL   MARCELLO. 

Sir  architect, 

You  do  forget  yourself,  to  speak  thus  rudely 
In  presence  of  his  Holiness,  and  to  us 
Who  are  his  cardinals. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO,  putting  Oil  his  hat. 

I  do  not  forget 

I  am  descended  from  the  Counts  Canossa, 
Linked  with  the  Imperial  line,  and  with  Matilda, 
Who  gave  the  Church  Saint  Peter's  Patrimony. 
I,  too,  am  proud  to  give  unto  the  Church 
The  labor  of  these  hands,  and  what  of  life 
Remains  to  me.     My  father  Buonarotti 
Was  Podesta  of  Chiusi  and  Caprese. 
I  am  not  used  to  have  men  speak  to  me 
As  if  I  were  a  mason,  hired  to  build 
A  garden  wall,  and  paid  on  Saturdays 
So  much  an  hour. 

CARDINAL    SALVIATI,  aside. 

No  wonder  that  Pope  Clement 
Never  sat  down  in  presence  of  this  man, 
Lest  he  should  do  the  same  ;  and  always  bade  him 
Put  on  his  hat,  lest  he  unasked  should  do  it ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

If  any  man  could  die  of  grief  and  shame, 


134  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  should.     This  labor  was  imposed  upon  me  ; 
I  did  not  seek  it ;  and  if  I  assumed  it, 
'T  was  not  for  love  of  fame  or  love  of  gain, 
But  for  the  love  of  God.     Perhaps  old  age 
Deceived  me,  or  self-interest,  or  ambition  ; 
I  may  be  doing  harm  instead  of  good. 
Therefore,  I  pray  your  Holiness,  release  me ; 
Take  off  from  me  the  burden  of  this  work  ; 
Let  me  go  back  to  Florence. 

JULIUS. 

Never,  never, 
While  I  am  living. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Doth  your  Holiness 

Remember  what  the  Holy  Scriptures  say 
Of  the  inevitable  time,  when  those 
Who  look  out  of  the  windows  shall  be  darkened, 
And  the  almond-tree  shall  flourish  ? 

JULIUS. 

That  is  in 
Ecclesiastes. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  the  grasshopper 
Shall  be  a  burden,  and  desire  shall  fail, 
Because  man  goeth  unto  his  long  home. 
Vanity  of  vanities,  saith  the  Preacher  ;  all 
Is  vanity. 

JULIUS. 

Ah,  were  to  do  a  thing 
As  easy  as  to  dream  of  doing  it. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  135 

We  should  not  want  for  artists.     But  the  men 
Who  carry  out  in  act  their  great  designs 
Are  few  in  number  ;  ay,  they  may  be  counted 
Upon  the  fingers  of  this  hand.     Your  place 
Is  at  St.  Peter's. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  have  had  my  dream, 
And  cannot  carry  out  my  great  conception, 
And  put  it  into  act. 

JULIUS. 

Then  who  can  do  it  ? 

You  would  but  leave  it  to  some  Baccio  Bigio 
To  mangle  and  deface. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Rather  than  that, 

I  will  still  bear  the  burden  on  my  shoulders 
A  little  longer.     If  your  Holiness 
Will  keep  the  world  in  order,  and  will  leave 
The  building  of  the  church  to  me,  the  work 
Will  go  on  better  for  it.     Holy  Father, 
If  all  the  labors  that  I  have  endured, 
And  shall  endure,  advantage  not  my  soul, 
I  am  but  losing  time. 

JULIUS,  laying  his  hands  on  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  shoulders. 

You  will  be  gainer 
Both  for  your  soul  and  body. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Not  events 
Exasperate  me,  but  the  purest  conclusions 


136  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

I  draw  from  these  events  ;  the  sure  decline 

Of  art,  and  all  the  meaning  of  that  word  ; 

All  that  embellishes  and  sweetens  life, 

And  lifts  it  from  the  level  of  low  cares 

Into  the  purer  atmosphere  of  beauty ; 

The  faith  in  the  Ideal ;  the  inspiration 

That  made  the  canons  of  the  church  of  Seville 

Say,  "  Let  us  build,  so  that  all  men  hereafter 

Will  say  that  we  were  madmen."     Holy  Father, 

I  beg  permission  to  retire  from  here. 

JULIUS. 

Go  ;  and  my  benediction  be  upon  you. 

[Michael  Angela  goes  out. 

My  Cardinals,  this  Michael  Angelo 

Must  not  be  dealt  with  as  a  common  mason. 

He  comes  of  noble  blood,  and  for  his  crest 

Bears  two  bull's  horns ;  and  he  has  given  us  proof 

That  he  can  toss  with  them.     From  this  day  forth 

Unto  the  end  of  time,  let  no  man  utter 

The  name  of  Baccio  Bigio  in  my  presence. 

All  great  achievements  are  the  natural  fruits 

Of  a  great  character.     As  trees  bear  not 

Their  fruits  of  the  same  size  and  quality, 

But  each  one  in  its  kind  with  equal  ease, 

So  are  great  deeds  as  natural  to  great  men 

As  mean  things  are  to  small  ones.     By  his  work 

We  know  the  master.     Let  us  not  perplex  him. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  137 


III. 

BINDO    ALTOVITL 

A  street  In  Rome.     BINDO  ALTOVITI,  standing  at  the  door  of  his  house.     MICHAKL  ANGELO, 

passlny, 

BINDO. 

Good -morning,  Mcsser  Michael  Angclo  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Good-morning,  Messer  Bindo  Altoviti ! 

BINDO. 

What  brings  you  forth  so  early  ? 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

The  same  reason 

That  keeps  you  standing  sentinel  at  your  door,  — 
The  air  of  this  delicious  summer  morning. 
What  news  have  you  from  Florence  ? 

BIXDO. 

Nothing  new ; 

The  same  old  tale  of  violence  and  wrong. 
Since  the  disastrous  day  at  Monte  Murlo, 
When  in  procession,  through  San  Gallo's  gate, 
Bareheaded,  clothed  in  rags,  on  sorry  steeds, 
Philippo  Strozzi  and  the  good  Valori 
Were  led  as  prisoners  down  the  streets  of  Florence, 
Amid  the  shouts  of  an  ungrateful  people, 
Hope  is  no  more,  and  liberty  no  more. 
Duke  Cosimo,  the  tyrant,  reigns  supreme. 


138  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Florence  is  dead  :  her  houses  are  but  tombs ; 
Silence  and  solitude  are  in  her  streets. 

BINDO. 

Ah  yes  ;  and  often  I  repeat  the  words 
You  wrote  upon  your  statue  of  the  Night, 
There  in  the  Sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo  : 
"  Grateful  to  me  is  sleep ;  to  be  of  stone 
More  grateful,  while  the  wrong  and  shame  endure  ; 
To  see  not,  feel  not,  is  a  benediction  ; 
Therefore  awake  me  not ;  oh,  speak  in  whispers." 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Ah,  Messer  Bindo,  the  calamities, 

The  fallen  fortunes,  and  the  desolation 

Of  Florence  are  to  me  a  tragedy 

Deeper  than  words,  and  darker  than  despair. 

I,  who  have  worshipped  freedom  from  my  cradle, 

Have  loved  her  with  the  passion  of  a  lover, 

And  clothed  her  with  all  lovely  attributes 

That  the  imagination  can  conceive, 

Or  the  heart  conjure  up,  now  see  her  dead, 

And  trodden  in  the  dust  beneath  the  feet 

Of  an  adventurer  !     It  is  a  grief 

Too  great  for  me  to  bear  in  my  old  age. 

BINDO. 

I  say  no  news  from  Florence  :  I  am  wrong, 
For  Benvenuto  writes  that  he  is  coming 
To  be  my  guest  in  Rome. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Those  are  good  tidings. 
He  hath  been  many  years  away  from  us. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  141 

BINDO. 

Pray  you,  come  in. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  have  not  time  to  stay, 
And  yet  I  will.     I  see  from  here  your  house 
Is  filled  with  works  of  art.     That  bust  in  bronze 
Is  of  yourself.     Tell  me,  who  is  the  master 
That  works  in  such  an  admirable  way, 
And  with  such  power  and  feeling  ? 

BINDO. 

Benvenuto. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Ah  ?     Benvenuto  ?     'T  is  a  masterpiece  ! 

It  pleases  me  as  much,  and  even  more, 

Than  the  antiques  about  it ;  and  yet  they 

Are  of  the  best  one  sees.     But  you  have  placed  it 

By  far  too  high.     The  light  comes  from  below, 

And  injures  the  expression.     Were  these  windows 

Above  and  not  beneath  it,  then  indeed 

It  would  maintain  its  own  among  these  works 

Of  the  old  masters,  noble  as  they  are. 

I  will  go  in  and  study  it  more  closely. 

I  always  prophesied  that  Benvenuto, 

With  all  his  follies  and  fantastic  ways, 

Would  show  his  genius  in  some  work  of  art 

That  would  amaze  the  world,  and  be  a  challenge 

Unto  all  other  artists  of  his  time.  \_They  yob 


MICHAEL  ANGELO, 
IY 

IN  THE  COLISEUM. 
MICHAEL  AXGELO  and  TOMASO  DE'  CAVALIERI. 

CAVALIERI. 

What  have  you  here  alone,  Messer  Michele  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  come  to  learn. 

CAVALIERI. 

You  are  already  master, 
And  teach  all  other  men. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Nay,  I  know  nothing  ; 
Not  even  my  own  ignorance,  as  some 
Philosopher  hath  said.     I  am  a  school-boy 
Who  hath  not  learned  his  lesson,  and  who  stands 
Ashamed  and  silent  in  the  awful  presence 
Of  the  great  master  of  antiquity 
Who  built  these  walls  cyclopean. 

CAVALIERI. 

Gaudentius 

His  name  was,  I  remember.  His  reward 
Was  to  be  thrown  alive  to  the  wild  beasts 
Here  where  we  now  are  standing. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Idle  tales. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  143 

CAVALIERI. 

But  you  are  greater  than  Gaudentius  was, 
And  your  work  nobler. 

MICHAEL   AXGELO. 

Silence,  I  beseech  you. 

CAVALIERI. 

Tradition  says  that  fifteen  thousand  men 
Were  toiling  for  ten  years  incessantly 
Upon  this  amphitheatre. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Behold 

How  wonderful  it  is  !     The  queen  of  flowers, 
The  marble  rose  of  Rome  !     Its  petals  torn 
By  wind  and  rain  of  thrice  five  hundred  years ; 
Its  mossy  sheath  half  rent  away,  and  sold 
To  ornament  our  palaces  and  churches, 
Or  to  be  trodden  under  feet  of  man 
Upon  the  Tiber's  bank  ;  yet  what  remains 
Still  opening  its  fair  bosom  to  the  sun, 
And  to  the  constellations  that  at  night 
Hang  poised  above  it  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 

CAVALIERI. 

The  rose  of  Rome,  but  not  of  Paradise  ; 

Not  the  white  rose  our  Tuscan  poet  saw, 

With  saints  for  petals.     When  this  rose  was  perfect 

Its  hundred  thousand  petals  were  not  saints, 

But  senators  in  their  Thessalian  caps, 

And  all  the  roaring  populace  of  Rome  ; 

And  even  an  Empress  and  the  Vestal  Virgins, 

Who  came  to  see  the  gladiators  die, 

Could  not  give  sweetness  to  a  rose  like  this. 


144  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

I  spake  not  of  its  uses,  but  its  beauty. 

CAVALIERI. 

The  sand  beneath  our  feet  is  saturate 

With  blood  of  martyrs  ;  and  these  rifted  stones 

Are  awful  witnesses  against  a  people 

Whose  pleasure  was  the  pain  of  dying  men. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Tomaso  Cavalieri,  on  my  word, 

You  should  have  been  a  preacher,  not  a  painter  ! 

Think  you  that  I  approve  such  cruelties, 

Because  I  marvel  at  the  architects 

Who  built  these  walls,  and  curved  these  noble  arches  ? 

Oh,  I  am  put  to  shame,  when  I  consider 

How  mean  our  work  is,  when  compared  with  theirs  ! 

Look  at  these  walls  about  us  and  above  us  ! 

They  have  been  shaken  by  earthquakes,  have  been  made 

A  fortress,  and  been  battered  by  long  sieges  ; 

The  iron  clamps,  that  held  the  stones  together, 

Have  been  wrenched  from  them ;  but  they  stand  erect 

And  firm,  as  if  they  had  been  hewn  and  hollowed 

Out  of  the  solid  rock,  and  were  a  part 

Of  the  foundations  of  the  world  itself. 

CAVALIERI. 

Your  work,  I  say  again,  is  nobler  work, 
In  so  far  as  its  end  and  aim  are  nobler  ; 
And  this  is  but  a  ruin,  like  the  rest. 
Its  vaulted  passages  are  made  the  caverns 
Of  robbers,  and  are  haunted  by  the  ghosts 
Of  murdered  men. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  147 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

A  thousand  wild  flowers  bloom 
From  every  chink,  and  the  birds  build  their  nests 
Among  the  ruined  arches,  and  suggest 
New  thoughts  of  beauty  to  the  architect. 
Now  let  us  climb  the  broken  stairs  that  lead 
Into  the  corridors  above,  and  study 
The  marvel  and  the  mystery  of  that  art 
In  which  I  am  a  pupil,  not  a  master. 
All  things  must  have  an  end ;  the  world  itself 
Must  have  an  end,  as  in  a  dream  I  saw  it. 
There  came  a  great  hand  out  of  heaven,  and  touched 
The  earth,  and  stopped  it  in  its  course.     The  seas 
Leaped,  a  vast  cataract,  into  the  abyss  ; 
The  forests  and  the  fields  slid  off,  and  floated 
Like  wooded  islands  in  the  air.     The  dead 
Were  hurled  forth  from  their  sepulchres  ;  the  living 
Were  mingled  with  them,  and  themselves  were  dead, — 
All  being  dead  ;  and  the  fair  shining  cities 
Dropped  out  like  jewels  from  a  broken  crown. 
Naught  but  the  core  of  the  great  globe  remained, 
A  skeleton  of  stone.     And  over  it 
The  wrack  of  matter  drifted  like  a  cloud, 
And  then  recoiled  upon  itself,  and  fell 
Back  on  the  empty  world,  that  with  the  weight 
Reeled,  staggered,  righted,  and  then  headlong  plunged 
Into  the  darkness,  as  a  ship,  when  struck 
By  a  great  sea,  throws  off  the  waves  at  first 
On  either  side,  then  settles  and  goes  down 
Into  the  dark  abyss,  with  her  dead  crew. 

CAVALIERI. 

But  the  earth  does  not  move. 


148  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ? 

There  are  great  truths  that  pitch  their  shining  tents 
Outside  our  walls,  and  though  but  dimly  seen 
In  the  gray  dawn,  they  will  be  manifest 
When  the  light  widens  into  perfect  day. 
A  certain  man,  Copernicus  by  name, 
Sometime  professor  here  in  Rome,  has  whispered 
It  is  the  earth,  and  not  the  sun,  that  moves. 
What  I  beheld  was  only  in  a  dream, 
Yet  dreams  sometimes  anticipate  events, 
Being  unsubstantial  images  of  things 
As  yet  unseen. 


V. 

BENVENUTO    AGAIN  :   MACELLO    DE'    CORVI. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  BENVENUTO  CELLINI. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

So,  Benvenuto,  you  return  once  more 

To  the  Eternal  City.     T  is  the  centre 

To  which  all  gravitates.     One  finds  no  rest 

Elsewhere  than  here.     There  may  be  other  cities 

That  please  us  for  a  while,  but  Rome  alone 

Completely  satisfies.     It  becomes  to  all 

A  second  native  land  by  predilection, 

And  not  by  accident  of  birth  alone. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  am  but  just  arrived,  and  am  now  lodging 

With  Bindo  Altoviti.     I  have  been 

To  kiss  the  feet  of  our  most  Holy  Father, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  149 

And  now  am  come  in  haste  to  kiss  the  hands 
Of  my  miraculous  Master. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  to  find  him 
Grown  very  old. 


Never  grow  old. 


BENVENUTO. 

You  know  that  precious  stones 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Half  sunk  beneath  the  horizon, 
And  yet  not  gone.     Twelve  years  are  a  long  while. 
Tell  me  of  France. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  were  too  long  a  tale 
To  tell  you  all.     Suffice  in  brief  to  say 
The  King  received  me  well,  and  loved  me  well ; 
Gave  me  the  annual  pension  that  before  me 
Our  Leonardo  had,  nor  more  nor  less, 
And  for  my  residence  the  Tour  de  Nesle, 
Upon  the  river-side. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

A  princely  lodging. 

BENVENUTO. 

What  in  return  I  did  now  matters  not, 
For  there  are  other  things  of  greater  moment, 
I  wish  to  speak  of.     First  of  all,  the  letter 
You  wrote  me,  not  long  since,  about  my  bust 
Of  Bindo  Altoviti,  here  in  Rome.     You  said, 


150  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 


"  My  Benvenuto,  I  for  many  years 
Have  known  you  as  the  greatest  of  all  goldsmiths, 
And  now  I  know  you  as  no  less  a  sculptor." 
Ah,  generous  Master  !     How  shall  I  e'er  thank  you 
For  such  kind  language  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

By  believing  it. 

I  saw  the  bust  at  Messer  Bindo's  house, 
And  thought  it  worthy  of  the  ancient  masters, 
And  said  so.     That  is  all. 

BENVENUTO. 

It  is  too  much  ; 

And  I  should  stand  abashed  here  in  your  presence, 
Had  I  done  nothing  worthier  of  your  praise 
Than  Bindo's  bust. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

What  have  you  done  that 's  better  ? 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  \§i 

BEXVEXUTO. 

When  I  left  Rome  for  Paris,  you  remember 
I  promised  you  that  if  I  went  a  goldsmith 
I  would  return  a  sculptor.     I  have  kept 
The  promise  I  then  made. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Dear  Benvenuto, 

I  recognized  the  latent  genius  in  you, 
But  feared  your  vices. 

BEXVEXUTO. 

I  have  turned  them  all 

To  virtues.     My  impatient,  wayward  nature, 
That  made  me  quick  in  quarrel,  now  has  served  me 
Where  meekness  could  not,  and  where  patience  could  not, 
As  you  shall  hear  now.     I  have  cast  in  hronze 
A  statue  of  Perseus,  holding  thus  aloft 
In  his  left  hand  the  head  of  the  Medusa, 
And  in  his  right  the  sword  that  severed  it ; 
His  right  foot  planted  on  the  lifeless  corse  ; 
His  face  superb  and  pitiful,  with  eyes 
Down-looking  on  the  victim  of  his  vengeance. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  see  it  as  it  should  be. 

BEXVEXUTO. 

As  it  will  be 

When  it  is  placed  upon  the  Ducal  Square, 
Half-way  between  your  David  and  the  Judith 
Of  Donatello. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Rival  of  them  both  ! 


152  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  ah,  what  infinite  trouble  have  I  had 

With  Bandinello,  and  that  stupid  beast, 

The  major-domo  of  Duke  Cosimo, 

Francesco  Ricci,  and  their  wretched  agent 

Gorini,  who  came  crawling  round  about  me 

Like  a  black  spider,  with  his  whining  voice 

That  sounded  like  the  buzz  of  a  mosquito  ! 

Oh,  I  have  wept  in  utter  desperation, 

And  wished  a  thousand  times  I  had  not  left 

My  Tour  de  Nesle,  nor  e'er  returned  to  Florence, 

Or  thought  of  Perseus.     What  malignant  falsehoods 

They  told  the  Grand  Duke,  to  impede  my  work, 

And  make  me  desperate  ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

The  nimble  lie 

Is  like  the  second-hand  upon  a  clock  ; 
We  see  it  fly  ;  while  the  hour-hand  of  truth 
Seems  to  stand  still,  and  yet  it  moves  unseen, 
And  wins  at  last,  for  the  clock  will  not  strike 
Till  it  has  reached  the  goal. 

BENVENUTO. 

My  obstinacy 

Stood  me  in  stead,  and  helped  me  to  o'ercome 
The  hindrances  that  envy  and  ill-will 
Put  in  my  way. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

When  anything  is  done, 
People  see  not  the  patient  doing  of  it, 
Nor  think  how  great  would  be  the  loss  to  man 
If  it  had  not  been  done.     As  in  a  building 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  153 

Stone  rests  on  stone,  and  wanting  the  foundation 
All  would  be  wanting,  so  in  human  life 
Each  action  rests  on  the  foregone  event, 
That  made  it  possible,  but  is  forgotten 
And  buried  in  the  earth. 

BENVENUTO. 

Even  Bandinello, 

Who  never  yet  spake  well  of  anything, 
Speaks  well  of  this  ;  and  yet  he  told  the  Duke 
That,  though  I  cast  small  figures  well  enough, 
I  never  could  cast  this. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

But  you  have  done  it, 

And  proved  Ser  Bandinello  a  false  prophet. 
That  is  the  wisest  way. 

BENVEXUTO. 

And  ah,  that  casting  ! 
What  a  wild  scene  it  was,  as  late  at  night, 
A  night  of  wind  and  rain,  we  heaped  the  furnace 
With  pine  of  Serristori,  till  the  flames 
Caught  in  the  rafters  over  us,  and  threatened 
To  send  the  burning  roof  upon  our  heads ; 
And  from  the  garden  side  the  wind  and  rain 
Poured  in  upon  us,  and  half  quenched  our  fires. 
I  was  beside  myself  with  desperation. 
A  shudder  came  upon  me,  then  a  fever ; 
I  thought  that  I  was  dying,  and  was  forced 
To  leave  the  work-shop,  and  to  throw  myself 
Upon  my  bed,  as  one  who  has  no  hope. 
And  as  I  lay  there,  a  deformed  old  man 
Appeared  before  me,  and  with  dismal  voice, 


154  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Like  one  who  doth  exhort  a  criminal 

Led  forth  to  death,  exclaimed,  "  Poor  Benvenuto, 

Thy  work  is  spoiled  !     There  is  no  remedy  !  " 

Then,  with  a  cry  so  loud  it  might  have  reached 

The  heaven  of  fire,  I  bounded  to  my  feet, 

And  rushed  back  to  my  workmen.     They  all  stood 

Bewildered  and  desponding  ;  and  I  looked 

Into  the  furnace,  and  beheld  the  mass 

Half  molten  only,  and  in  my  despair 

I  fed  the  fire  with  oak,  whose  terrible  heat 

Soon  made  the  sluggish  metal  shine  and  sparkle. 

Then  followed  a  bright  flash,  and  an  explosion, 

As  if  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  among  us. 

The  covering  of  the  furnace  had  been  rent 

Asunder,  and  the  bronze  was  flowing  over ; 

So  that  I  straightway  opened  all  the  sluices 

To  fill  the  mould.     The  metal  ran  like  lava, 

Sluggish  and  heavy  ;  and  I  sent  my  workmen 

To  ransack  the  whole  house,  and  bring  together 

My  pewter  plates  and  pans,  two  hundred  of  them, 

And  cast  them  one  by  one  into  the  furnace 

To  liquefy  the  mass,  and  in  a  moment 

The  mould  was  filled  !     I  fell  upon  my  knees 

And  thanked  the  Lord ;  and  then  we  ate  and  drank 

And  went  to  bed,  all  hearty  and  contented. 

It  was  two  hours  before  the  break  of  day. 

My  fever  was  quite  gone. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

A  strange  adventure, 

That  could  have  happened  to  no  man  alive 
But  you,  my  Benvenuto. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  157 

BENVENUTO. 

As  my  workmen  said 
To  major-domo  Ricci  afterward, 
When  he  inquired  of  them :  ««  T  was  not  a  man, 
But  an  express  great  devil." 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

And  the  statue  ? 

BENVENUTO. 

Perfect  in  every  part,  save  the  right  foot 

Of  Perseus,  as  I  had  foretold  the  Duke. 

There  was  just  bronze  enough  to  fill  the  mould ; 

Not  a  drop  over,  not  a  drop  too  little. 

I  looked  upon  it  as  a  miracle 

Wrought  by  the  hand  of  God. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

And  now  I  see 
How  you  have  turned  your  vices  into  virtues. 

BENVENUTO. 

But  wherefore  do  I  prate  of  this  ?     I  came 
To  speak  of  other  things.     Duke  Cosimo 
Through  me  invites  you  to  return  to  Florence, 
And  offers  you  great  honors,  even  to  make  you 
One  of  the  Forty-Eight,  his  Senators. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

His  Senators  !     That  is  enough.     Since  Florence 
Was  changed  by  Clement  Seventh  from  a  Republic 
Into  a  Dukedom,  I  no  longer  wish 
To  be  a  Florentine.     That  dream  is  ended. 
The  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  now  reigns  supreme  ; 


158  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

All  liberty  is  dead.     Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
I  hoped  to  see  my  country  rise  to  heights 
Of  happiness  and  freedom  yet  unreached 
By  other  nations,  but  the  climbing  wave 
Pauses,  lets  go  its  hold,  and  slides  again 
Back  to  the  common  level,  with  a  hoarse 
Death-rattle  in  its  throat.     I  am  too  old 
To  hope  for  better  days.     I  will  stay  here 
And  die  in  Rome.     The  very  weeds,  that  grow 
Among  the  broken  fragments  of  her  ruins, 
Are  sweeter  to  me  than  the  garden  flowers 
Of  other  cities  ;  and  the  desolate  ring 
Of  the  Campagna  round  about  her  walls 
Fairer  than  all  the  villas  that  encircle 
The  towns  of  Tuscany. 

BENTENUTO. 

But  your  old  friends ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

All  dead  by  violence.     Baccio  Yalori 
Has  been  beheaded  ;  Guicciardini  poisoned ; 
Philippo  Strozzi  strangled  in  his  prison. 
Is  Florence  then  a  place  for  honest  men 
To  flourish  in  ?     What  is  there  to  prevent 
My  sharing  the  same  fate  ? 

BENTENUTO. 

Why,  this:  if  all 
Your  friends  are  dead,  so  are  your  enemies. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Is  Aretino  dead  ? 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  159 

BENVENUTO. 

He  lives  in  Venice, 
And  not  in  Florence. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

T  is  the  same  to  me. 

This  wretched  mountebank,  whom  flatterers 
Call  the  Divine,  as  if  to  make  the  word 
Unpleasant  in  the  mouths  of  those  who  speak  it 
And  in  the  ears  of  those  who  hear  it,  sends  me 
A  letter  written  for  the  public  eye, 
And  with  such  subtle  and  infernal  malice, 
I  wonder  at  his  wickedness.     T  is  he 
Is  the  express  great  devil,  and  not  you. 
Some  years  ago  he  told  me  how  to  paint 
The  scenes  of  the  Last  Judgment. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  remember. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Well,  now  he  writes  to  me  that,  as  a  Christian, 
He  is  ashamed  of  the  unbounded  freedom 
With  which  I  represent  it. 

BENVENUTO. 

Hypocrite ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

He  says  I  show  mankind  that  I  am  wanting 
In  piety  and  religion,  in  proportion 
As  I  profess  perfection  in  my  art. 
Profess  perfection  ?     Why,  't  is  only  men 
Like  Bugiardini  who  are  satisfied 


160  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

With  what  they  do.     I  never  am  content, 
But  always  see  the  labors  of  my  hand 
Fall  short  of  my  conception. 

BENVENUTO. 

I  perceive 

The  malice  of  this  creature.     He  would  taint  you 
With  heresy,  and  in  a  time  like  this  ! 
T  is  infamous  ! 


MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

I  represent  the  angels 

Without  their  heavenly  glory,  and  the  saints 
Without  a  trace  of  earthly  modesty. 

BENVENUTO. 

Incredible  audacity  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

The  heathen 

Veiled  their  Diana  with  some  drapery, 
And  when  they  represented  Venus  naked 
They  made  her,  by  her  modest  attitude, 
Appear  half  clothed.     But  I,  who  am  a  Christian, 
Do  so  subordinate  belief  to  art 
That  I  have  made  the  very  violation 
Of  modesty  in  martyrs  and  in  virgins 
A  spectacle  at  which  all  men  would  gaze 
With  half-averted  eyes,  even  in  a  brothel. 

BENVENUTO. 

He  is  at  home  there,  and  he  ought  to  know 
What  men  avert  their  eyes  from  in  such  places  ; 
From  the  Last  Judgment  chiefly,  I  imagine. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  161 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

But  divine  Providence  will  never  leave 

The  boldness  of  my  marvellous'  work  unpunished  ; 

And  the  more  marvellous  it  is,  the  more 

'T  is  sure  to  prove  the  ruin  of  my  fame  ! 

And  finally,  if  in  this  composition 

I  had  pursued  the  instructions  that  he  gave  me 

Concerning  heaven  and  hell  and  paradise, 

In  that  same  letter,  known  to  all  the  world, 

Nature  would  not  be  forced,  as  she  is  now, 

To  feel  ashamed  that  she  invested  me 

With  such  great  talent ;  that  I  stand  myself 

A  very  idol  in  the  world  of  art. 

He  taunts  me  also  with  the  Mausoleum 

Of  Julius,  still  unfinished,  for  the  reason 

That  men  persuaded  the  inane  old  man 

It  was  of  evil  augury  to  build 

His  tomb  while  he  was  living  ;  and  he  speaks 

Of  heaps  of  gold  this  Pope  bequeathed  to  me, 

And  calls  it  robbery  ;  —  that  is  what  he  says. 

What  prompted  such  a  letter  ? 

BENVEXUTO. 

Vanity. 

He  is  a  clever  writer,  and  he  likes 
To  draw  his  pen,  and  flourish  it  in  the  face 
Of  every  honest  man,  as  swordsmen  do 
Their  rapiers  on  occasion,  but  to  show 
How  skilfully  they  do  it.     Had  you  followed 
The  advice  he  gave,  or  even  thanked  him  for  it, 
You  would  have  seen  another  style  of  fence. 
'T  is  but  his  wounded  vanity,  and  the  wish 
To  see  his  name  in  print.     So  give  it  not 
A  moment's  thought ;  it  soon  will  be  forgotten. 
11 


162  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

I  will  not  think  of  it,  but  let  it  pass 

For  a  rude  speech*  thrown  at  me  in  the  street, 

As  boys  threw  stones  at  Dante. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  what  answer 

Shall  I  take  back  to  Grand  Duke  Cosimo  ? 
He  does  not  ask  your  labor  or  your  service  ; 
Only  your  presence  in  the  city  of  Florence, 
With  such  advice  upon  his  work  in  hand 
As  he  may  ask,  and  you  may  choose  to  give. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

You  have  my  answer.     Nothing  he  can  offer 
Shall  tempt  me  to  leave  Rome.     My  work  is  here, 
And  only  here,  the  building  of  St.  Peter's. 
What  other  things  I  hitherto  have  done 
Have  fallen  from  me,  are  no  longer  mine ; 
I  have  passed  on  beyond  them,  and  have  left  them 
As  milestones  on  the  way.     What  lies  before  me, 
That  is  still  mine,  and  while  it  is  unfinished 
No  one  shall  draw  me  from  it,  or  persuade  me, 
By  promises  of  ease,  or  wealth,  or  honor, 
Till  I  behold  the  finished  dome  uprise 
Complete,  as  now  I  see  it  in  my  thought. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  will  you  paint  no  more  ? 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

No  more. 


MICHAEL    ANGELO.  163 

BENVENUTO. 

T  is  well. 

Sculpture  is  more  divine,  and  more  like  Nature, 
That  fashions  all  her  works  in  high  relief, 
And  that  is  sculpture.     This  vast  ball,  the  Earth, 
Was  moulded  out  of  clay,  and  baked  in  fire  ; 
Men,  women,  and  all  animals  that  breathe 
Are  statues,  and  not  paintings.     Even  the  plants, 
The  flowers,  the  fruits,  the  grasses,  were  first  sculptured, 
And  colored  later.     Painting  is  a  lie, 
A  shadow  merely. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Truly,  as  you  say, 

Sculpture  is  more  than  painting.     It  is  greater 
To  raise  the  dead  to  life  than  to  create 
Phantoms  that  seem  to  live.     The  most  majestic 
Of  the  three  sister  arts  is  that  which  builds  ; 
The  eldest  of  them  all,  to  whom  the  others 
Are  but  the  hand-maids  and  the  servitors, 
Being  but  imitation,  not  creation. 
Henceforth  I  dedicate  myself  to  her. 

BENVENUTO. 

And  no  more  from  the  marble  hew  those  forms 
That  fill  us  all  with  wonder  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Many  statues 

Will  there  be  room  for  in  my  work.     Their  station 
Already  is  assigned  them  in  my  mind. 
But  things  move  slowly.     There  are  hindrances, 
Want  of  material,  want  of  means,  delays 
And  interruptions,  endless  interference 


164  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Of  Cardinal  Commissioners,  and  disputes 
And  jealousies  of  artists,  that  annoy  me. 
But  I  will  persevere  until  the  work 
Is  wholly  finished,  or  till  I  sink  down 
Surprised  by  death,  that  unexpected  guest, 
Who  waits  for  no  man's  leisure,  but  steps  in, 
Unasked  and  unannounced,  to  put  a  stop 
To  all  our  occupations  and  designs. 
And  then  perhaps  I  may  go  back  to  Florence  ; 
This  is  my  answer  to  Duke  Cosimo. 


VI 

URBINO'S  FORTUNE. 
MICHAEL  AXGELO'S  Studio.     MICHAEL  ANGELO  and  URBINO» 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  pausing  in  his  work. 
Urbino,  thou  and  I  are  both  old  men. 
My  strength  begins  to  fail  me. 

UEBINO. 

Eccellenza, 

That  is  impossible.     Do  I  not  see  you 
Attack  the  marble  blocks  with  the  same  fury 
As  twenty  years  ago  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

T  is  an  old  habit. 

I  must  have  learned  it  early  from  my  nurse 
At  Setignano,  the  stone-mason's  wife  ; 
For  the  first  sounds  I  heard  were  of  the  chisel 
Chipping  away  the  stone. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO.  165 

URBINO. 

At  every  stroke 
You  strike  fire  with  your  chisel. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Ay,  because 
The  marble  is  too  hard. 

UKBINO. 

It  is  a  block 

That  Topolino  sent  you  from  Carrara. 
He  is  a  judge  of  marble. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

I  remember. 

With  it  he  sent  me  something  of  his  making,  — 
A  Mercury,  with  long  body  and  short  legs, 
As  if  by  any  possibility 

A  messenger  of  the  gods  could  have  short  legs. 
It  was  no  more  like  Mercury  than  you  are, 
But  rather  like  those  little  plaster  figures 
That  peddlers  hawk  about  the  villages, 
As  images  of  saints.     But  luckily 
For  Topolino,  there  are  many  people 
Who  see  no  difference  between  what  is  best 
And  what  is  only  good,  or  not  even  good  ; 
So  that  poor  artists  stand  in  their  esteem 
On  the  same  level  with  the  best,  or  higher. 

URBINO. 

How  Eccellenza  laughed  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Poor  Topolino  ! 


166  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

All  men  are  not  born  artists,  nor  will  labor 
E'er  make  them  artists. 

URBINO. 

No,  no  more 

Than  Emperors,  or  Popes,  or  Cardinals. 
One  must  be  chosen  for  it.     I  have  been 
Your  color-grinder  six  and  twenty  years, 
And  am  not  yet  an  artist. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Some  have  eyes 

That  see  not ;  but  in  every  block  of  marble 
I  see  a  statue,  —  see  it  as  distinctly 
As  if  it  stood  before  me  shaped  and  perfect 
In  attitude  and  action.     I  have  only 
To  hew  away  the  stone  walls  that  imprison 
The  lovely  apparition,  and  reveal  it 
To  other  eyes  as  mine  already  see  it. 
But  I  grow  old  and  weak.     What  wilt  thou  do 
When  I  am  dead,  Urbino  ? 

UKBINO. 

Eccellenza, 
I  must  then  serve  another  master. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Never ! 

Bitter  is  servitude  at  best.     Already 
So  many  years  hast  thou  been  serving  me ; 
But  rather  as  a  friend  than  as  a  servant. 
We  have  grown  old  together.     Dost  thou  think 
So  meanly  of  this  Michael  Angelo 
As  to  imagine  he  would  let  thee  serve, 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

When  he  is  free  from  service  ?     Take  this  purse, 
Two  thousand  crowns  in  gold. 


167 


UliBIXO. 


Two  thousand  crowns ! 


MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Ay,  it  will  make  thee  rich.     Thou  shalt  not  die 
A  beggar  in  a  hospital. 


URBINO. 

Oh,  Master  ! 


MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

I  cannot  have  them  with  me  on  the  journey 
That  I  am  undertaking.     The  last  garment 
That  men  will  make  for  me  will  have  no  pockets. 

UKBIXO,  kisslny  the  hand  of  MICHAEL  AXGELO. 
My  generous  master ! 


168  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Hush! 

URBINO. 

My  Providence  ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Not  a  word  more.     Go  now  to  bed,  old  man. 
Thou  hast  served  Michael  Angelo.     Remember, 
Henceforward  thou  shalt  serve  no  other  master. 


vn. 

THE   OAKS   OF  MONTE   LUCA. 
MICHAEL  ANGELO,  alone  in  the  woods. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

How  still  it  is  among  these  ancient  oaks ! 

Surges  and  undulations  of  the  air 

Uplift  the  leafy  boughs,  and  let  them  fall 

With  scarce  a  sound.     Such  sylvan  quietudes 

Become  old  age.     These  huge  centennial  oaks, 

That  may  have  heard  in  infancy  the  trumpets 

Of  Barbarossa's  cavalry,  deride 

Man's  brief  existence,  that  with  all  his  strength 

He  cannot  stretch  beyond  the  hundredth  year. 

This  little  acorn,  turbaned  like  the  Turk, 

Which  with  my  foot  I  spurn,  may  be  an  oak 

Hereafter,  feeding  with  its  bitter  mast 

The  fierce  wild  boar,  and  tossing  in  its  arms 

The  cradled  nests  of  birds,  when  all  the  men 

That  now  inhabit  this  vast  universe, 

They  and  their  children,  and  their  children's  children, 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  169 

Shall  be  but  dust  and  mould,  and  nothing  more. 

Through  openings  in  the  trees  I  see  below  me 

The  valley  of  Clitumnus,  with  its  farms 

And  snow-white  oxen  grazing  in  the  shade 

Of  the  tall  poplars  on  the  river's  brink. 

O  Nature,  gentle  mother,  tender  nurse ! 

I,  who  have  never  loved  thee  as  I  ought, 

But  wasted  all  my  years  immured  in  cities, 

And  breathed  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  streets, 

Now  come  to  thee  for  refuge.     Here  is  peace. 

Yonder  I  see  the  little  hermitages 

Dotting  the  mountain  side  with  points  of  light, 

And  here  St.  Julian's  convent,  like  a  nest 

Of  curlews,  clinging  to  some  windy  cliff. 

Beyond  the  broad,  illimitable  plain 

Down  sinks  the  sun,  red  as  Apollo's  quoit, 

That,  by  the  envious  zephyr  blown  aside, 

Struck  Hyacinthus  dead,  and  stained  the  earth 

With  his  young  blood,  that  blossomed  into  flowers. 

And  now,  instead  of  these  fair  deities, 

Dread  demons  haunt  the  earth  ;  hermits  inhabit 

The  leafy  homes  of  sylvan  Hamadryads  ; 

And  jovial  friars,  rotund  and  rubicund, 

Replace  the  old  Silenus  with  his  ass. 

Here  underneath  these  venerable  oaks, 

Wrinkled  and  brown  and  gnarled  like  them  with  age, 

A  brother  of  the  monastery  sits, 

Lost  in  his  meditations.     What  may  be 

The  questions  that  perplex,  the  hopes  that  cheer  him  ? 

Good-evening,  holy  father. 

MONK. 

God  be  with  you. 


170  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Pardon  a  stranger  if  he  interrupt 
Your  meditations. 


MONK. 

It  was  but  a  dream,  — 

The  old,  old  dream,  that  never  will  come  true ; 
The  dream  that  all  my  life  I  have  been  dreaming, 
And  yet  is  still  a  dream. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

All  men  have  dreams. 

I  have  had  mine  ;  but  none  of  them  came  true  ; 
They  were  but  vanity.     Sometimes  I  think 
The  happiness  of  man  lies  in  pursuing, 
Not  in  possessing  ;  for  the  things  possessed 
Lose  half  their  value.     Tell  me  of  your  dream. 

MONK. 

The  yearning  of  my  heart,  my  sole  desire, 
That  like  the  sheaf  of  Joseph  stands  upright, 
While  all  the  others  bend  and  bow  to  it ; 
The  passion  that  torments  me,  and  that  breathes 
Ne.w  meaning  into  the  dead  forms  of  prayer, 
Is  that  with  mortal  eyes  I  may  behold 
The  Eternal  City. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Rome  ? 


MONK. 

There  is  but  one  ; 

The  rest  are  merely  names.     I  think  of  it 
As  the  Celestial  City,  paved  with  gold, 
And  sentinelled  with  angels. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Would  it  were. 

I  have  just  fled  from  it.     It  is  beleaguered 
By  Spanish  troops  and  by  the  Duke  of  Alva. 

MONK. 

But  still  for  me  't  is  the  Celestial  City, 
And  I  would  see  it  once  before  I  die. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Each  one  must  bear  his  cross. 

MONK. 

Were  it  a  cross 

That  had  been  laid  upon  me,  I  could  bear  it, 
Or  fall  with  it.     It  is  a  crucifix  ; 
I  am  nailed  hand  and  foot,  and  I  am  dying  ! 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

What  would  you  see  in  Home  ? 


171 


172  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

MONK. 

His  Holiness. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Him  that  was  once  the  Cardinal  Caraffa  ? 
You  would  but  see  a  man  of  fourscore  years, 
With  sunken  eyes,  burning  like  carbuncles, 
Who  sits  at  table  with  his  friends  for  hours, 
Cursing  the  Spaniards  as  a  race  of  Jews 
And  miscreant  Moors.     And  with  what  soldiery 
Think  you  he  now  defends  the  Eternal  City  ? 

MONK. 

With  legions  of  bright  angels. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

So  he  calls  them  ; 

And  yet  in  fact  these  bright  angelic  legions 
Are  only  German  Lutherans. 

MONK,  crossing  himself. 

Heaven  protect  us  ! 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

What  further  would  you  see  ? 

MONK. 

The  Cardinals, 
Going  in  their  gilt  coaches  to  High  Mass. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Men  do  not  go  to  Paradise  in  coaches. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  173 

MONK. 

The  catacombs,  the  convents,  and  the  churches  ; 
The  ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week 
In  all  their  pomp,  or,  at  the  Epiphany, 
The  Feast  of  the  Santissima  Bambino 
At  Ara  Coeli.     But  I  shall  not  see  them. 


MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

These  pompous  ceremonies  of  the  Church 
Are  but  an  empty  show  to  him  who  knows 
The  actors  in  them.     Stay  here  in  your  convent, 
For  he  who  goes  to  Rome  may  see  too  much. 
What  would  you  further  ? 

MONK. 

I  would  see  the  painting 
Of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

The  smoke  of  incense  and  of  altar  candles 
Has  blackened  it  already. 

MOXK. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

Then  I  would  hear  Allegri's  Miserere, 
Sung  by  the  Papal  choir. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

A  dismal  dirge ! 

I  am  an  old,  old  man,  and  I  have  lived 
In  Rome  for  thirty  years  and  more,  and  know 
The  jarring  of  the  wheels  of  that  great  world, 
Its  jealousies,  its  discords,  and  its  strife. 
Therefore  I  say  to  you  remain  content 


174  MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Here  in  your  convent,  here  among  your  woods, 
Where  only  there  is  peace,     Go  not  to  Rome. 
There  was  of  old  a  monk  of  Wittenberg 
Who  went  to  Rome ;  you  may  have  heard  of  him  ; 
His  name  was  Luther ;  and  you  know  what  followed. 

\_The  convent  bell  rings. 

MONK,  rising. 

It  is  the  convent  bell ;  it  rings  for  vespers. 
Let  us  go  in  ;  we  both  will  pray  for  peace. 


VIII. 

THE   DP: AD   CHRIST. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  studio.     MICHAEL  ANGELO,  ivith  a  light,  working  upon  the  Dead  Christ. 

Midnight. 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

0  Death,  why  is  it  I  cannot  portray 

Thy  form  and  features  ?     Do  I  stand  too  near  thee  ? 
Or  dost  thou  hold  my  hand,  and  draw  me  back, 
As  being  thy  disciple,  not  thy  master  ? 
Let  him  who  knows  not  what  old  age  is  like 
Have  patience  till  it  comes,  and  he  will  know. 

1  once  had  skill  to  fashion  Life  and  Death 
And  Sleep,  which  is  the  counterfeit  of  Death  ; 
And  I  remember  what  Giovanni  Strozzi 
Wrote  underneath  my  statue  of  the  Night 

In  San  Lorenzo,  ah,  so  long  ago ! 

Grateful  to  me  is  sleep  !     More  grateful  now 
Than  it  was  then  ;  for  all  my  friends  are  dead  ; 
And  she  is  dead,  the  noblest  of  them  all. 


MICHAEL   ANGELO.  177 

I  saw  her  face,  when  the  great  sculptor  Death, 
Whom  men  should  call  Divine,  had  at  a  blow 
Stricken  her  into  marble  ;  and  I  kissed 
Her  cold  white  hand.     What  was  it  held  me  back 
From  kissing  her  fair  forehead,  and  those  lips, 
Those  dead,  dumb  lips  ?     Grateful  to  me  is  sleep  ! 

Enter  GIORGIO  VASARI. 
GIORGIO. 

Good-evening,  or  good-morning,  for  I  know  not 
Which  of  the  two  it  is. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

How  came  you  in  ? 

GIORGIO. 

Why,  by  the  door,  as  all  men  do. 

MICHAEL    AXGELO. 

Ascanio 
Must  have  forgotten  to  bolt  it. 

GIORGIO. 

Probably. 

Am  I  a  spirit,  or  so  like  a  spirit, 
That  I  could  slip  through  bolted  door  or  window  ? 
As  I  was  passing  down  the  street,  I  saw 
A  glimmer  of  light,  and  heard  the  well-known  chink 
Of  chisel  upon  marble.     So  I  entered, 
To  see  what  keeps  you  from  your  bed  so  late. 


MICHAEL  ANGELO,  cowing  foriw.rd  with   the 
You  have  been  revelling  with  your  boon  companions, 
Giorgio  Yasari,  and  you  come  to  me 
At  an  untimely  hour. 


178  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

GIORGIO. 

The  Pope  hath  sent  me. 
His  Holiness  desires  to  see  again 
The  drawing  you  once  showed  him  of  the  dome 
Of  the  Basilica. 

MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

We  will  look  for  it. 

GIORGIO. 

What  is  the  marble  group  that  glimmers  there 
Behind  you  ? 

MICHAEL    ANGELO. 

Nothing,  and  yet  everything,  - 
As  one  may  take  it.     It  is  my  own  tomh, 
That  I  am  building. 

GIORGIO. 

Do  not  hide  it  from  me. 

By  our  long  friendship  and  the  love  I  bear  you, 
Refuse  me  not ! 

MICHAEL  ANGELO,  letting  fall  the  lamp. 
Life  hath  become  to  me 
An  empty  theatre,  —  its  lights  extinguished, 
The  music  silent,  and  the  actors  gone ; 
And  I  alone  sit  musing  on  the  scenes 
That  once  have  been.     I  am  so  old  that  Death 
Oft  plucks  me  by  the  cloak,  to  come  with  him  ; 
And  some  day,  like  this  lamp,  shall  I  Ml  down, 
And  my  last  spark  of  life  will  be  extinguished. 
Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  what  darkness  of  despair ! 
So  near  to  death,  and  yet  so  far  from  God  ! 


NOTES. 


PART   FIRST. 


COXDIVI,  in  his  "  Vite  di  Michael  Angelo  Buonarotti,"  describes  him,  when  seventy-nine  years 
old,  as  u  of  middle  height,  with  broad  shoulders  and  thin  legs,  having  a  large  head,  a  face  small 
in  proportion  to  the  size  of  his  skull,  a  square  forehead,  full  temples,  high  cheek  bones,  and  a  nose 
made  flat  by  the  fist  of  that  beastly  and  proud  man  Torrigiano  tie'  Torrigiani."  Torrigiani  is  said 
to  have  fled  to  England,  and  to  have  designed  there,  among  other  things,  the  tomb  of  Henry  VIII. 
"His  lips,"  continues  Condivi,  "  are  thin,  and  the  lower,  being  the  larger,  appears  to  protrude 
when  the  face  is  seen  in  profile.  His  eyebrows  are  sparse  ;  his  eyes  gray,  spotted  with  yellow 
and  blue  lights,  and  ever  varying ;  his  ears  of  just  proportion  ;  his  hair,  once  black,  is  streaked 
with  gray,  as  is  his  thin,  forked  beard,  which  is  four  or  five  fingers'  breadth  in  length."  Vasari's 
description  does  not  differ  materially  from  this,  so  that  the  student  is  enabled  to  know  with  some 
certainty  what  the  personal  appearance  of  the  great  master  was.  These  descriptions  have  unques 
tionably  been  of  important  service  in  the  hands  of  artists  who  have  studied  to  produce  a  satisfac 
tory  portrait  of  Michael  Angelo.  It  is  possible  to  find  a  large  number  of  these  portraits,  and  not 
easy  to  learn,  even  by  a  comparison  of  all  the  lives  of  the  artist,  which  are  founded  upon  the  best 
authority.  Mr.  C.  1).  E.  Fortmun,  who  owns  the  original  medallion  portrait  in  wax  by  Leo 
Leone,  which  he  discovered  and  identified,  gives  in  an  article  on  the  portrait,  published  in  the 
'•  Archajological  Journal  "  for  March,  1875,  a  list  of  the  only  likenesses  which  can  he  considered 
authentic,  namely  :  1.  A  bronze  bust  at  the  Capitol,  referred  to  by  Vasari  as  the  work  by  Daniel 
of  Volterra.  2.  A  bust  in  marble  from  a  mask  taken  after  death.  3.  Leo  Leone's  medal.  4.  A 
figure  in  the  foreground  of  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  in  the  church  at  Santa  Trinita  at  Rome. 
5.  A  head  painted  by  Marcello  Venusti  in  his  copy  of  "  The  Last  Judgment."  6.  A  portrait 
ascribed  to  the  same  painter  at  Casa  Buonarotti.  7.  The  engraving  (profile)  by  Buonasoni.  Mr. 
C.  C.  Perkins,  in  his  "  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo,"  mentions  a  portrait  which  was  reproduced 
in  the  "Zeitschrift  fur  Bildene  Kunst,"  vol.  xi..  page  64,  with  a  short  article  by  Mr.  J.  K. 
\\  essely,  who  claims  that  it  was  drawn  and  engraved  by  Michael  Angelo,  and  that  it  is  the  orig 
inal  from  which  Ghisi  worked. 


The  bronze  bust. 


The  Leone  ini'iliil. 


riginal. 


The  portrait  used  as  a  frontispiece  to  the  present  volume  has  for  its  original  a  recent  sttel  en 
graving  after  Venusti's  portrait  by  an  eminent  French  artist.  A  fac-simile  of  Buonasoni's  pro 
file  is  given  on  page  36,  and  an  engraving  from  it  is  the  centre  of  the  head-piece  to  Part  First. 
Francesco  D'Ollanda's  profile,  with  slouched  hat  and  cloak,  is  given  in  the  half-title  to  Part  Third. 
Above  is  a  sketch  from  the  bronze  bust  in  the  Capitol  at  Rome ;  the  marble  bust ;  a  sketch 


180 


NOTES. 


of  Venusti's  portrait ;  and  the  head  from  the  Leone  medal.  This  head  is  particularly  interesting 
from  the  fact  that  it  shows  the  artist  when  eighty-eight  years  old,  and  was  made  by  his  intimate 
friend  Leo  Leone.  The  reverse  of  the  medal  is  a  blind  man  led  by  a  dog.  Being  much  pleased 
with  the  woi-k,  Michael  Angelo  gave  Leone  a  wax  model  of  his  Hercules  struggling  with  Antaeus. 

The  portraits  of  Vittoria  Colonna,  Marchesa  de  Pescara,  which  are  given  in  this  volume,  are 
referred  to  in  the  notes  at  the  proper  places.  She  was  born  in  1490,  betrothed  to  the  Marquis  de 
Pescara  in  1495,  and  married  to  him  in  1509.  Pescara  was  killed  in  fighting  against  the  French 
under  the  walls  of  Ravenna  in  1512.  It  is  not  known  when  or  where  Vittoria  Colonna  first  met 
Michael  Angelo,  but  all  authorities  agree  that  it  must  have  been  about  the  year  1536,  when  he  was 
over  sixty  years  of  age.  She  did  not  escape  the  espionage  of  the  Inquisition,  but  was  compelled  in 
1541  to  fly  to  the  convent  at  Viterbo.  Three  years  later,  she  went  to  the  convent  of  Benedictines 
of  St.  Anne  in  Rome,  and  just  before  her  death,  in  1547,  she  was  taken  to  the  house  of  Giuliano 
Cesarini,  the  husband  of  Giulia  Colonna,  her  only  relative  in  Rome.  It  was 
after  she  fled  to  the  convent  that  she  began  to  write  sonnets  to  and  receive 
them  from  Michael  Angelo,  whose  love  for  her  was  not  capable  of  being  con 
cealed. 

The  profile  of  the  Marquis  de  Pescara  given  here  is  from  a  medallion,  an 
engraving  of  which  may  be  .found  in  Harford's  "  Life  of  Michael  Angelo." 

Julia  Gonzaga,  Duchess  of  Trajetto,  was  known  as  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  all  Italy,  and  as  the  intimate  friend  of  Vittoria  Colonna.  She  also  spent  the 
last  of  her  days  in  a  convent.  The  portrait  on  page  10  was  drawn  from  Se- 
bastiano  del  Piombo's  painting  known  as  "  Saint  Agatha."  Another  sketch  of 
it,  showing  the  veil,  is  given  here. 

With  regard  to  Sebastian's  portraits  of  Julia  Gonzaga,  the  following,  from 
Crowe  and  Cavalcaselli's  "  History  of  Painting  in  North  Italy,"  will  be  inter 
esting  :  — 

"  The  real  portrait  of  Giulia  Gonzaga  is  supposed  to  exist  in  two  different  collections.  In  the 
National  Gallery,  we  have  the  likeness  of  a  lady  in  the  character  of  St.  Agatha,  as  symbolized  by 
a  nimbus  and  pincers.  Natural  pose  and  posture  and  dignified  mien  indicate  rank.  The  treatment 
is  free  and  bold,  but  the  colors  are  not  blended  with  the  care  which  Sebastian  would  surely  have 
bestowed  in  such  a  case.  In  the  Staedel  Museum  at  Frankfort,  the  person  represented  is  of  a 
noble  and  elegant  carriage,  seated,  in  rich  attire,  and  holding  a  fan  made  of  feathers.  A  pretty 
landscape  is  seen  through  an  opening,  and  a  rich  green  hanging  falls  behind  the  figure.  The 
handling  curiously  reminds  us  of  Bronzino.  It  is  well  known  that  the  likeness  of  Giulia  was  sent 
to  Francis  the  First  in  Paris,  and  was  registered  in  Lepicie's  catalogue.  The  canvas  of  the  National 
Gallery  was  purchased  from  the  Borghese  palace,  the  panel  at  Frankfort  from  the  heirlooms  of 
the  late  King  of  Holland.  A  third  female  portrait  by  Del  Piombo  deserves  to  be  recorded  in  con 
nection  with  this  inquiry,  —  that  of  Lord  Radnor  at  Longford  Castle,  in  which  a  lady  with  a  crim 
son  mantle  and  pearl  head-dress  stands  in  profile,  resting  her  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair.  On  a 
shawl  which  falls  from  the  chair  we  read,  '  Sunt  laquei  veneris  cave.'  The  shape  is  slender  as 
that  of  Vittoria  Colonna  in  the  Santangelo  palace  at  Naples,  but  the  color  is  too  brown  in  light 
and  too  red  in  shadow  to  yield  a  pleasing  effect,  and  were  it  proved  that  this  is  really  Giulia  Gon 
zaga  the  picture  would  not  deserve  Vasari's  eulogy." 


Page  16.  Brifjhter  than  Titian's.     Titian's  real  name  was  Tiziano  Vecelio,  called 
Da  Cadore.     He  was  born  in  1477  and  died  in  1576.     He  studied  with  Gio.  Bel 
lini,  and  succeeded  Giorgione  in   his  commissions.     The  original  of  the  portrait  on 
-,  page  105  is  a  well-known  engraving  by  Augostino  Caracci.     Herewith  is  given  a 
sketch  of  another  portrait  of  Titian,  from  Yriarte's  "  Venice." 


NOTES. 


181 


II. 

Page  17.  Why  did  the  Pope  and  his  ten  Cardinals  come,  h*>re  to  lay  this 
hear y  task  upon  me'.'  "The  Last  Judgment"  was  begun  in  1534,  when  Pan! 
III.,  Alessandro  Farnese,  was  Pope.  The  portrait  here  given  was  drawn  from 
one  in  Platina's  "  Vite  de  Pontifici,"  published  in  1730. 


Page  17.  The  bones  of  Julias.  This  refers  to  Julius  II.,  Julian  della  Rovere,  who 
became  Pope  in  1503.  The  portrait  is  given  in  various  publications  of  Raphael's 
works. 


Page  17.  Fra  Bastian,  my  Fra  Bastian,  might  have  done  It.-  Sebastian  del 
Piombo,  whose  real  name  was  Luciano,  was  born  in  1485  and  died  in  1547.  At  one  time  he 
placed  himself  under  the  tutorship  of  Michael  Angelo.  He  first  studied  with  Gio.  Bellini  and 
Giorgione.  The  portrait  given  on  page  91  has  for  its  original  the  one  in  Vasari's  works. 


III. 

Page  20.  Vittoria  Colonna,  Claud  to  Tolommel,  and  others.  Among  the  others  was  Francesco 
D'Ollanda,  a  miniature-painter,  who  was  sent  to  Rome  by  the  King  of  Portugal  that  he  might 
study  with  the  great  artists.  To  him  we  are  indebted  for  descriptions  of  two  Sundays  which  he 
spent  with  Vittoria  Colonna  and  Michael  Angelo  in  the  chapel  of  San  Sylvestro.  He  painted  the 
profile  portrait  which  is  given  as  a  centre-piece  to  the  half-title  of  Part  Third. 

IV. 

Page  30.  The  Duke,  my  cousin,  the  Hack  Alessandro.  The  portrait  given  on  page  32  was 
drawn  from  a  medal  by  Cellini,  reproduced  in  Plon's  life  of  that  artist. 

Page   30.   The    Wild   Boar  in   the  gardens  of  Lorenzo.     Lorenzo  de'  Medi 
The  portrait   given  here   was    drawn   from   one    in    Harford's    "  Life  of    Michael 
Angelo." 

V. 

Page  36.  And  you  have  had  the  honor,  nay,  the  glory,  of  portraying  Julia  Gonzaga.  In 
1533  Cardinal  Ippolito  de  Medici,  being  madly  in  love  with  Julia  Gonzaga,  sent  Sebastian  with 
an  armed  force  to  paint  her  portrait.  It  was  accomplished  in  a  month,  and  the  portrait  is  said 
to  have  been  one  of  Sebastian's  best.  It  was  sent  to  Francis  I.  of  France. 


Page  67,  Head.  The  original  of  this  head  was  drawn  in  black  chalk  by  Michael  Angelo. 
There  is  a  difference  of  opinion  among  the  authorities  as  to  whether  this  is  a  study  made  from 
Vittoria  Colonna  or  not.  It  is  often  referred  to  as  a  portrait,  in  various  writings. 


182 


NOTES. 


PART  SECOND. 


I. 

The  profile  which  forms  the  centre-piece  of  the  half-title  has  for  its  original  a  drawing  which 
has  been  ascribed  to  Michael  Angelo  as  a  study  from  Vittoria  Colonna,  but  much  discussion  has 
not  established  this  beyond  doubt.  It  is  claimed  that  a  sonnet  by  Michael  Angelo  describes  the 
costume  in  this  picture  so  fully  as  to  leave  no  doubt,  and  the  sonnet,  although  not  addressed  to  any 
one,  is  thought  to  be  one  of  the  many  written  by  the  great  artist  in  praise  of  Vittoria  Colonna. 
An  interesting  article  on  this  subject,  giving  both  the  head  and  the  sonnet,  will 
be  found  in  the  "  Gazette  des  Beaux  Arts  "  for  January,  1875. 

Page  73.  A  fugitive  from  Cardinal  Caraffa's  hate.  Cardinal  Caraffa  became 
Pope  Paul  IV.  in  1555.  The  sketch  of  the  portrait  is  taken  from  Platina's 
"  Vite." 


III. 

Page  77.  Welcome,  my  Benvenuto.  Benvenuto  Cellini  was  born  in  1500  and 
died  in  1570.  His  life  was  full  of  incident.  At  one  time  he  was  employed  by 
Clement  VII.  as  a  musician  as  well  as  sculptor.  The  portrait  on  page  150  is  the 
generally  accepted  one  by  Vasari.  A  sketch  is  given  of  the  head  used  as  a 
frontispiece  to  Plon's  life  of  this  artist. 


Pao-e  81.  /  see  the  marvellous  dome  of  Brunelleschi.  Filippo  Brunelleschi  was 
born  in  1377  and  died  in  1448.  He  is  called  the  father  of  Renaissance.  The  dome 
of  the  cathedral  at  Florence,  which  he  completed,  is  the  one  referred  to  in  the  text. 
The  sketch  of  his  portrait  is  from  Yriarte's  "  Florence." 


81.  Ghiberti's  gates  of  bronze.  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  was  born  in  1370  and 
died  in  1455.  He  was  a  goldsmith  and  sculptor.  In  1400  he  produced  a  design 
for  the  bronze  gate  to  the  baptistery  at  Florence,  which  was  preferred  to  Brunel- 
leschi's.  Michael  Angelo  said,  as  Mr.  Longfellow  has  made  him  say  (p.  100), 
that  these  gates  were  "  worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise."  The  portrait  given 
here  is  from  Yriarte's  "  Florence." 


81.   Giotto's   tower.     Giotto  di  Bordone,   born   in   1276,  died   in  1336. 
He  was  a  pupil  of  Cimabue,  a  painter  as  well   as  sculptor  and  architect.     The 
bell  tower  of  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore  in  Florence  is  the  one   meant  in  the   text. 
He  did  not  live  to  see  it  completed.     The  head  given  here  is  from  Yriarte's       ' 
"  Florence." 


Page  81.  And  Ghirlandajo's  lovely  Bend  glides.  Domenico  di  Tomaso  Cur- 
radi  di  Doffo  Bigordi  was  born  in  1449  and  died  in  1494.  He  was  called 
Ghirlandajo  from  the  fact  that  his  father,  a  goldsmith,  made  beautiful  garlands 
for  the  hair,  so  that  the  name  signifying  "  garland  twister  "  was 
given  to  him.  The  portrait  is  from  Yriarte's  "  Florence." 


Page  83.    Under  Pope  Clement  at  the  siege  of  Rome.    Pope   Clement  VII., 
Giulio  de'  Medici,  was  made  Pope  in  1523.     The  portrait  is  given   in  Platina's 

"  Vite." 


NOTES. 


183 


IV. 

Page  96.  See  how  the  setting  sun  lights  up  that  picture!  The  original  por 
trait  of  which  the  head  and  shoulders  is  given  in  the  engraving  is  in  the  museum 
at  Florence.  It  was  painted  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo.  and  has  been  rallt-.l  .-. 
portrait  of  Vittoria  Colonna,  but  there  seems  to  be  no  certainty  <>i 
its  identity.  The  sketch  given  here  shows  another  head  ascribed 
to  Sebastian  as  a  portrait  of  Vittoria  Colonna. 


Page  99.  When  Pope  Leo  died.  Leo  X.,  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  son  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent,  was  made  Pope  in  1513.  The  head  here  given  was  drawn  from 
an  engraving  of  Raphael's  portrait. 


Page  101.    Yon  strore  in  rivalry  with  Baldassare  and  Raphael  ftanzio.     Baldassare 
was  born  in  1481  and  died  in  1537.      He  suc 
ceeded    Raphael  as  architect  of   Saint  Peter's. 
The  sketch   given  here  was  drawn  from  an  en 
graving  of  Raphael's  portrait. 

Raphael  Sanzio  was  born  in  148.'5  and  died 
in  1520.      He  studied  under   his  father,   and 
later  with  Perugino.     The  two  portraits  given 
Cravings  of  the  originals. 


are  from  authentic 


Page  103.    Our  Vasari  here.    Giorgio  Vasari,  born  in  1512  and  died  in  1574.    His 
reputation  rests  upon  his"  Vite  de  piu  eccellenti  Pittori,   Scultori   et  Architette,"    **••' 
published  in  1555.     His  portrait  will  be  found  in  Yriarte's  "  Florence." 

Page  104.  Three  great  names.  Gioryione,  Titian,  and  the  Tintoretto.  Gior- 
gione  di  Castelfranco,  whose  real  name  was  Barbarelli,  was  born  in  1477  and 
died  in  1511.  He  was  the  founder  of  the  Venetian  school.  The 
portrait  from  which  the  one  herewith  is  sketched  is  given  in 
Yriarte's  "  Venice." 

The    real   name  of  Tintoretto    was  Jacopo   Robusti.     He  was 

>rett!>  from  the  fact  that  his  father  was  a  dyer.  He  was  born  in  1512  ffl^iit&ti-  ^^ 
and  died  in  1594.  The  portrait  here  given  is  to  be  found  in  ^Vf'fJjSr' 
Yriarte's  "  Venice." 

Page  106.  One  Paul  Cagliari,  called  the  Veronese.  Paul  Cagliari  was  born 
in  1528  and  died  in  1588.  He  was  the  son  of  a  sculptor.  His  portrait  is  given 
in  Yriarte's  "  Venice." 


called  Tint 


PART  THIRD. 
II. 


Page    125.  Pope   Julius   III-,  Giovanni   Maria  Giocci,  was  elected   in    1550.. 
le  original  of  the  portrait  given  here  is  in  Platina's  "  Vite,"  before  quoted. 


The  original 


184 


NOTES. 


Page  126.  The  labors  of  Bramante  and  San  Gallo.  Donate  Lazzari  Bramante  was  born  in 
1444  and  died  about  1514.  He  was  an  architect,  painter,  engraver,  and  military 
engineer.  He  was  a  compatriot  and  perhaps  relative  of  Raphael,  and  was  his 
friend  and  guide.  It  is  known  that  he  designed  for  Raphael  the  portico  that 
surrounds  the  "  School  of  Athens."  He  received  from  Julius  II.  the  task  of  re 
building  St.  Peter's,  and  on  his  death-bed  designated  Raphael  as  the  fit  suc 
cessor.  The  portrait  given  was  drawn  from  an  engraving  of  Raphael's  portrait  in 
the  Louvre. 

Antonio  San  Gallo  was  a  nephew  of  Giuliano  San  Gallo.  He  was  born  in  1482 
and  died  in  1546.  His  real  name  was  Picconi.  In  1509  he  was  one  of  the  con 
tractors  for  the  wood-work  in  the  Vatican  and  St.  Peter's.  He  next  became  head 
carpenter  at  the  castle,  assistant  to  Raphael  in  1516,  and  chief  architect  in  1520. 
The  portrait  is  found  in  Yriarte's  "  Florence." 


III. 

Bindo  Altoviti  was  a  wealthy  banker  in  Rome.     He  was  born  in  1491,  and  was  related  to  Pope 
Innocent  III.  through  his  mother.     He  devoted  his  fortune  to  the  encouragement 
of  art.     Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  Cellini,   Sansovino,  and  Vasari  were  his  inti 
mate  friends.     Michael  Angelo  gave  him  the  cartoon  from  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  called  "  The  Intoxication  of  Noah."     Raphael  painted 
for  him  a  Holy  Family  called  "  Madonna  dell'  Impannata,"  now  in 
the  Pitti   palace.     Below  is  given  a  sketch  of  Raphael's  portrait 
of  Altoviti,  which  in  costume  and  in  the  pose  of  the  head  bears  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  well-known  portrait  of  Raphael  as  a  young  man.     See 
note  to  page   101.     A  sketch  of   Cellini's  bust  of  Altoviti  is  also  given  here. 

Page  137.  Duke  Cosimo,  the  tyrant,  reigns  supreme.  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  called 
The  Great,  was  a  son  of  Giovanni  de'  Medici.  He  was  born  in  1519,  and  on  the 
death  of  Alexander  in  1537  he  was  declared  his  successor.  A  sketch  of  Cellini's 
bust  is  given  from  the  engraving  in  Plon's  "  Life  of  Cellini." 


14  DAY  USE 

^ESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


